THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


THE  COLLECTION  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINIANA 

ENDOWED  BY 

JOHN  SPRUNT  HILL 

CLASS  OF  1889 


i 


C8\3 


This  book  must  not 
be  taken  from  the 
Library  building. 


'[30  Cts. 


PPLETONS 


tw    HANDY-VaLUME    SERIES. 


A 


yUMMER  IDYL. 


BY 


CHRISTIAN     REID 


NEW  YORK: 
D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHF/' 


V  n  c 


Copyright  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  1878. 


APPLETONS' 

nw  HAIDT-YOLUM  SERIES. 

within  the  compass  of  a  sinL  read; '    llf.  ''""^  "'"*.  "hile 
the  artistic  treatment  th,  !!   f  f  u  ^'  ^"^  ""  *«  ^ymmetrv, 

nes,  Of  incidenr^h^r;  :\:  ;r  ttT^  r  ^^  ^^^"■ 

tions  novel;  ».w,  a  demand  for  books  n  a  Ir  ''  ""'"  """"• 
handy  that  the  volume  may  alwaysbe  c  ^edT  th  ""7""'  ■"" 
for  use  on  the  train,  on  the  steamboat  >nZV  '"'"^'''  """^ 

snatched  at  twiiigh;  or  bedtime?.^  'e  "it  L  onT'  "'  T"™'^ 

z^zz  -''-'' "  -'"^^  --:;irre::;:rr : 

of  a  size  convenient  for  the7octe  and  l!",  "  *'"  ''"''  ""^ 
of  bold  and  handsome  type  in  otder  tit  h  v  r^'  r""'"  '"  """"" 
out  fatigue,  with  that  slse  of  restfu,"  Jd  7  "'""'"  "'"■• 
printed  volumes  alone  confer      XI      T  ^"^""^  "'''"^  "'"" 

style,  at  low  prices   and  vH,  7    \T    ^"^^  '•"P"'-'- '"  -"'fo™ 
English,  and  cZ^^Z' iLtTl  """""'  '"""  ^'""'-. 

brary.  varied  in  charTcter  and  f  u^  ''"""""^  '  '''^"8'"«'l  »• 

tainment  it  will  atrd     F  ctiln   '  T'  '"  ""'  "'"'^''  -<- 

plan,  but  it  is  desiled  J   T  ^""'"'^"^y  P-'edominates  i«  the 

sive   so  as  to  ZT/        ,       '  ""  '^"^'  "^  ^''''<=«''»  eomprehen. 
■'ve,  so  as  to  include  works  of  everv  variot«  ^r  .i  t'"^"™ 

authors  as  well  as  new  .nrf  ...     !•  ^       "'^"*'  f™™  o'd 

readers.  '  """  '""■''"'™  ">  ^""'«''"  ^^  well  as  general 

"•  ^''''"™»  t  CO.,  54»  t  551  Br..dw.y,  Kew  York. 


APPLETONS'  NEW  HANDY-VOLUME  SERIES, 


SUMMEE  IDYL. 


BY 

CHRISTIAN  REID, 

ATJTHOE  OF  "VALEEIB  ATLMER,".  "BONNY  KATK,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW   YORK: 
D.    APPLETOJSr    AND    COMPANY, 

549  AND  551  BROAD  WAY. 

1878. 


COPYBIGHT  BY 

T>.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 

1878. 


-^  3  S  S.  I 


OOKTENTS. 


CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.  "I,  TOO,  Shepherds,  in  Arcadia  dwelt"  .       5 

n.  "Beyond  the  Magic  Valley  lay"   .  .          18 

III.  "My  Love  she's  but  a  Lassie  yet"      .  .     31 

IV.  "In  Nature's  Eyes  to  look  and  to  rejoice"        43 
V.  "  Linger,  0  Gentle  Time  !  "  .            .  .           54 

VI.  "The  Mood  op  Woman  who  can  tell?"  .     66 

VII,  "  Love  was  in  the  Next  Degree  "    .  .           76 

VIII.  "Sweet  is  True  Love,  though  given  in  vain, 

IN  vain"          .            .            .            .  .91 

IX.  "Love  the  Gift  is  love  the  Debt"  .          98 

X.  "  Some  there  be  that  Shadows  kiss  "    .  .  106 

XL  "Westward  ho!"       .            .            .  .116 

XII.  "  How  should  I  greet  thee  ?  "   .            .  .  127 

Xni.  "If  she  be  not  fair  to  me"             .  .         142 

XIV.  "Under  the  Greenwood  Bough"            .  .  156 

XV.  "Oh,  my  Cousin,  shallow-hearted"  .        167 

XVI.  "0  Last  Regret,  Regret  can  die"        .  .184 

XVII.  "  Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well  !  "  .        198 


0 


A  SUMMER  IDYL. 


CHAPTER  I. 


"l,    TOO,    SHEPHERDS,    IN   AECADIA    DWELT." 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  says  Geoffrey  Charl- 
ton, laying  down  his  pen  as  he  speaks  ;  "  there 
must  be  an  end  of  this.  If  not,  there  will  be  an 
end  of  me ;  and  I  am  not  ready  to  be  taken  off 
by  brain-fever  quite  yet.  Foster  told  me  the 
other  day  that  I  must  leave  the  city,  and  I  begin 
to  think  that  he  is  right.  The  question  is,  where 
to  go  ?  " 

He  leans  back  in  his  chair,  clasps  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  and  reflects.  Scores  of  flies  buzz 
and  drone  around  him,  scores  more  thirstily  di-ink 
the  ink  from  the  much-erased  and  blotted  manu- 
script on  the  table,  while  a  few  commit  suicide  in 
the  open  inkstand.  Against  the  closed  window- 
blinds  the  sun  of  July  is  beating  hotly  ;  from  the 
paved  street  outside  a  white  glare  rises  ;  across  the 
way  a  hand-organ  is  listlessly  giving  forth  the 


6  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

strains  of  "Mulligan  Guards,"  and  overhead  a 
j^ainter  of  Bohemian  tendencies  is  entertaining  a 
company  of  friends,  on  whom  the  heat  of  the  day 
seems  to  exercise  no  sedative  effect. 

"  This  is  decidedly  not  one  of  those  quiet  re- 
treats which  genius  loves ;  neither  is  it  a  cool 
one,"  continues  Mr.  Charlton,  presently.  "  I  must 
change  my  quarters,  that  is  evident.  But  where 
shall  I  go  ?  A  summer  *  resort '  would  simj^ly 
make  an  end  of  me  by  slow  boredom  instead  of 
quick  work.  What  I  want  is  novelty  of  scene, 
health  of  body,  and  refreshment  of  mind.  Shall 
I  go  out  to  the  Plains  and  join  an  exploring  par- 
ty ?  Shall  I  go  to  Nova  Scotia,  and  dream  away 
a  month  or  two  ?  Shall  I — confound  it  !  there  is 
somebody  at  the  door.     Come  in  !  " 

The  door  opens,  and  a  young  man  enters — a 
remarkably  handsome  young  fellow,  whose  face 
is  flushed  with  heat,  and  whose  brown  hair  clings 
to  his  brow  in  short,  damp  curls  when  he  takes  off 
his  hat. 

"  What,  Sunderland,  is  it  you  ?  "  says  Charl- 
ton. "  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long  that  I 
thought  you  were  out  of  town." 

"Exactly  what  I  thought  of  you,"  answers 
Sunderland,  subsiding  into  a  chair,  "until  I  met 
Renshaw  this  morning,  and  he  told  me  you  were 
still  here.  Fearfully  hot,  isn't  it?  By  Jove, 
Charlton,  you'll  excuse  me  for  saying  that  you 
look  awfully  overworked." 


"I,  TOO,  SHEPHERDS,  IX  ARCADIA  DWELT."       7 

"  I  feel  awfully  overworked,"  returns  Charlton, 
gi-imlj.  "  Night-work  on  the  Telegraph,  and  day- 
work  for  two  or  three  journals  and  magazines,  is 
calculated  to  tell  on  a  man  unless  he  has  the  mus- 
cles of  a  horse  and  the  nerves  of  an  elephant.  I 
have  neither,  and  it  has  told  on  me.  It  has  come 
to  this — that  I  must  go  away  and  rest,  or  break 
down,  and  be  sent  to  a  hospital  with  brain-fever." 

"I  should  go  away  and  rest,"  says  Sunder- 
land. "  It  is  the  pleasanter  alternative  of  the  two. 
Where  shall  you  go  ?  " 

"That  is  the  question  I  was  asking  myself 
when  you  came  in,  and  I  have  received  no  satis- 
factory reply.  I  want  to  go  to  some  quiet  place 
and  work  on  my  novel.  You  are  not  aware,  per- 
haps, that  I  have  a  novel  in  hand  destined  to 
make  me  famous." 

"  That  is  your  idea  of  resting,  is  it  ? "  says 
Sunderland.  "You  literary  men  are  certainly 
odd  !  My  dear  fellow,  have  you  not  learned  yet 
that  all  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  very  dull 
boy?  Take  my  advice — put  your  novel  aside, 
and  come  with  me.     I  leave  the  city  to-morrow." 

"Whither  bound?" 

"  To  Canada,  Niagara,  and  the  lakes." 

"What!  alone?" 

"No — with  the  Prestons.  They  propose  to 
make  an  extensive  summer  tour,  going  south  fi- 
nally by  the  Mississippi  River." 

"  And  so  you  are  still  in  the  chains  of  the  fair 


8  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

Gertrude,"  says  Charlton.  "  I  fancied  that  affair 
would  have  become  antediluvian  by  this  time. 
Wasn't  it  two  months  ago  that  you  made  her 
acquaintance  ?  Xo,  you  can't  tempt  me  by  any 
such  programme  as  that.  1  pine  for  Arcadia,  and 
Arcadia  does  not  exist  in  any  region  where  fash- 
ionable hotels  and  summer  tourists  abound." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  don't  know  a  place  that  would 
suit  you  ?  "  says  Sunderland,  with  the  air  of  one 
whom  a  bright  thought  has  struck.  "  I  certainly 
know — not  exactly  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme 
grows,  but  a  country  where  the  whistle  of  a  loco- 
motive has  never  sounded,  where  fashionable  hotels 
are  unknown,  and  summer  tourists  rarely  wander." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  asks  Charlton.  "  Let 
me  tell  you  this  is  no  jesting  matter  !  If  Arcadia 
is  to  be  found,  I  mean  to  find  it.  Once  or  twice 
in  a  man's  life,  I  suppose,  a  rural  longing  seizes 
liim.  Such  a  longing  has  seized  me  just  now,  and 
if  you  are  in  earnest " 

"  Of  course  I  am  in  earnest,"  says  Sunderland. 
"  What  else  should  I  be  ?  You  remember  having 
heard  me  speak  of  my  cousin  Flora  Tyrrell,  I  am 
sure  ?  " 

"  Remember  !  I  should  think  I  did  ! "  re- 
sponds Charlton,  with  a  sigh  which  is  eloquent  of 
past  boredom.  "  But  she  has  been  out  of  date  for 
several  months  ;  you  don't  mean  to  speak  of  her 
again,  do  you  ?  And  what  possible  connection 
has  she  with  Arcadia  ?  " 


"I,  TOO,  SHEPHERDS,  IN   ARCADIA   DWELT."       9 

"  Only  the  slight  connection  of  living  in  it," 
says  Sunderland,  a  little  stiffly.  "  You  have  heard 
of  Western  North  Carolina,  haven't  you  ?  But  I 
don't  suppose  you  have  ever  been  there." 

"You  suppose  quite  rightly,"  says  Charlton. 
"  I  have  never  been  there,  but  I  am  aware  that 
some  adventurous  travelers  have  declared  the 
country  to  be  picturesque  and  worth  visiting.  Is 
that  your  Arcadia  ?  " 

"That  is  my  Arcadia.  I  ought  to  know  it 
well,  for  every  simimer  of  my  boyhood  was  spent 
there ;  and  I  inclined  to  think  that  a  man  like 
you,  who  cares  nothing  for  fashionable  gayety, 
might  like  it  exceedingly.  Frankly,  it  bores  7ne 
terribly  ;  but  you  are  different." 

"  I  confess  I  am  more  likely  to  be  bored  by 
men  than  by  Nature,"  says  Charlton,  quietly. 
"  Will  you  have  a  cigar  ?  Now " — after  he  has 
lighted  his  own — "  tell  me  about  this  place.  Where 
is  it  ?  and  how  is  it  reached  ?  And  what  has  your 
cousin  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  that  she  lives  there,"  an- 
swers Sunderland.  "  Poor  little  Flora  !  I  used 
to  be  very  fond  of  her  ;  but,  of  course,  such  fan- 
cies fade  away  as  a  man  grows  older.  You  laugh 
at  me,  but  no  doubt  you  have  a  goodly  number 
of  them  yourself,  Charlton." 

"Perhaps  so,"  says  Charlton,  in  a  non-com- 
mittal tone.     "  But  to  return  to  Arcadia — " 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  you  loould  go  there  !  "  in- 


10  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

terrupts  Sunderland,  with  sudden  energy.  "You 
might  do  me  a  very  great  favor  if  you  had  a 
mind  that  way." 

"  I  am  not  particularly  obliging  as  a  general 
rule,"  says  Charlton  ;  "  but,  if  I  go,  I  should  not 
mind  doing  you  a  favor — provided  it  entails  no 
trouble.     What  is  it  ?  " 

Sunderland  does  not  answer  for  a  minute.  He 
sits  and  gazes  steadily  at  the  floor,  his  cigar,  from 
which  faint  wreaths  of  blue  smoke  curl,  held  be- 
tween the  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  while  with 
his  left  he  caresses  gently  one  of  the  silken  brown 
whiskers,  of  which  he  is  very  proud.  Charlton 
leans  his  head  against  the  back  of  his  chair  and 
watches  him  with  a  half -amused  smile.  He  likes 
the  young  man  despite  his  vanity,  his  egotism, 
his  volatile  lightness — likes  him  because  he  is  al- 
ways an  agreeable  companion,  and  thoroughly  a 
prince  of  good-fellows,  open-handed,  generous- 
hearted,  sunny-tempered.  It  is  no  new  thing  for 
people  to  like  Sunderland.  They  have  never  done 
anything  else  since  he  was  born  ;  and  Sunderland 
himself  is  well  accustomed  to  win  the  tenderness  of 
women  and  the  friendship  of  men.  He  is  also  well 
accustomed  to  making  use  of  his  fellow-creatures 
whenever  it  will  serve  his  convenience  to  do  so  ; 
and,  since  it  is  likely  that  Charlton  may  serve  his 
convenience  now,  he  unhesitatingly  prej^ares  to 
make  use  of  him.  Charlton  on  his  part,  fully 
aware  of  this,  placidly  waits  to  hear  what  favor 


"I,  TOO,  SHEPHERDS,  IX  ARCADIA  DWELT."    H 

the  other  has  to  request.  He  is  not  long  kept  in 
suspense.  Sunderland  suddenly  looks  up  and 
speaks  a  little  diffidently  : 

"  You  won't  mind  if  I  tell  you  something  of 
a  story  first.  It  shall  not  be  long.  You  have 
heard  me  talk  of  my  cousin,  and  perhaps  you 
don't  need  for  me  to  tell  you  that  when  I  left 
Carolina  there  was  a  boy  and  girl  love-affair  be- 
tween us.  Flora  was  very  pretty,  and  we  had,  in 
a  great  measure,  grown  up  together.  I  was  ex- 
ceedingly attached  to  her,  and  of  course  she  liked 
me."  Here  Prince  Charming  pauses,  strokes  his 
whisker  still  more  gently,  and  sighs.  "  However, 
I  don't  think  either  of  us  was  very  hard  hit,"  he 
goes  on  in  the  tone  of  one  administering  consola- 
tion to  himself.  "  I  soon  fell  in  love  with  some- 
body else,  and  very  likely  Flora  did  the  same  ; 
but  still  I  don't  know  that  she  did,  and  so  I  am 
placed  in  rather  an  awkward  position." 

*'  AYhy  so  ?  "  asks  Charlton,  rolling  out  a  cloud 
of  smoke,  and  watching  it  curl  fantastically  about 
his  head. 

"  I  should  think  you  could  tell  why  so,"  replied 
Sunderland.  "  A  man  who  isn't  a  puppy  doesn't 
like  to  speak  of  such  matters.  You'll  think  me 
full  of  conceit,  but  I  put  the  question  to  yourself. 
Suppose  you  had  taken  a  fancy  to  a  cousin  whom 
you  were  always  with,  and  talked  nonsense,  and 
then  gone  away  and  fallen  in  love  in  earnest, 
should  you  like  to  ask  the  woman  you  love  to 


12  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

marry  you,  Trhile  you  don't  know  liow  much  your 
cousin  still  tliinks  you  bound  to  her,  or — or  how 
much  she  may  care  for  you  ?  " 

*'  That  is  the  state  of  the  case,  is  it  ?  "  says  Charl- 
'  ton,  trying  heroically  to  repress  a  smile.  "  You 
want  to  ask  Miss  Preston  to  marry  you,  and  you 
are  afraid  the  blow  may  break  your  cousin's  heart. 
Youi'  consideration,  my  dear  boy,  does  you  credit ; 
but,  since  I  am  your  father  confessor  for  the  time 
being,  let  us  hear  how  much  your  honor  is  in- 
volved. Hearts  and  darts  and  things  of  that  kind 
can  be  trifled  with,  you  know  ;  but  a  man's  hon- 
or  » 

"Must  stand  firm  though  the  heavens  fall," 
says  Sunderland,  with  a  slightly  uneasy  laugh. 
"  Yes,  I  know  that.  AVell,  honestly,  I  don't  think 
my  honor  is  involved.  Many  men  would  not  give 
the  matter  a  thought.  There  is  no  engagement 
between  Flora  and  myself  ;  but  I  would  have 
said  at  the  time  that  we  understood  each  other. 
I  am  afraid  now  that  we  did  understand  each 
other  a  great  deal  too  well.  How  much  she  has 
changed  in  the  interval  since  I  saw  her  last,  two 
years  ago,  I  cannot  tell.  She  ^vrites  occasionally, 
but  her  letters  tell  nothing  ;  they  are  much  more 
full  of  the  children,  the  horses,  and  the  neighbors, 
than  of  herself.  She  always  was  proud  and  shy, 
however,  so  that  does  not  count." 

"  TThat   does   count,    then  ? "   asks    Charlton. 
"  The  ^presumption  is  strong,  I  should  think,  that 


"I,  TOO,  SHEPHERDS,  IX  ARCADIA   DWELT."    13 

she  is  a  reasonable  young  lady,  who  like  yourself 
has  put  youthful  folly  aside." 

"  I  wish  I  were  sure  of  that,"  says  Sunderland, 
sincerely  ;  "  but  the  trouble  is  that  I  am  not  at 
all  sure.  Flora  never  was  exactly  like  other  girls. 
I  thouo:ht  I  would  0*0  this  summer  and  see  for 
myself  how  matters  stand  ;  but  the  Prestons  have 
asked  me  to  join  them,  and — and  I  can't  well  re- 
fuse. But  I  am  still  fond  of  Flora — as  fond  as  ever, 
only  in  a  different  way — and  I  would  rather  cut 
my  throat  than  seem  to  act  badly  toward  her." 

"  A  very  good  frame  of  mind,"  says  Charlton, 
approvingly.  He  looks  at  the  young  man  with  a 
smile  which  this  time  is  neither  satirical  nor 
amused — only  full  of  pleasant  cordiality.  "  You 
are  in  a  dilemma,  certainly,"  he  adds.  "  How  do 
you  mean  to  escape  from  it  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  ask  you  to  give  me  a  helping  hand," 
answers  Sunderland,  emboldened  by  his  tone. 
"  You'll  not  refuse,  I  am  sure,  Charlton  !  If  you 
will  only  set  my  mind  at  rest — and  you  can  do  so 
without  much  trouble  to  yourself — I  shall  be  the 
m.ost  grateful  beggar  in  existence  !  " 

"  You  are  already  the  most  impudent !  "  says 
Charlton.  "  What  have  I  to  do  with  your  affaii's, 
amatory  or  otherwise  ? — and  how  do  you  propose 
that  I  should  set  your  mind  at  rest  ?  " 

"Haven't  you  decided  to  go  to  Carolina?" 
asks  the  other.  "  If  you  don't  find  Arcadia  be- 
yond the  Blue  Ridge,  let  me  tell  you  that  you 


14  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

need  never  look  for  it.  And  Flora  lives  there. 
I'll  give  you  a  letter  of  introduction  to  my  uncle  ; 
he  has  a  charming  country -place  on  the  French 
Broad  in  Transylvania.  Such  a  country,  Charl- 
ton !  you  can't  imagine  anything  more  beautiful ! 
Then  you  can  cultivate  Flora's  acquaintance,  and 
let  me  know  if  she  has  any  fancy  for  me  yet." 

"  I  admire  your  unparalleled  coolness  !  "  says 
Charlton.  "  Does  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  any 
man  or  woman  was  put  into  the  world  for  other 
purposes  than  to  serve  your  convenience  ?  I  nev- 
er heard  such  a  proposal  in  my  life !  That  I 
should  start  out  and  explore  the  unknown  wilds 
of  North  Carolina  in  order  to  discover  whether  or 
not  your  cousin  is  still  in  love  with  you  ! " 

"  Now,  that  is  all  nonsense  ! "  says  Sunderland, 
rather  aggrieved.  *'  I  did  not  make  any  such  pro- 
posal. You  said — or  if  you  didn't  say,  you  im- 
plied— that  you  were  going  to  Carolina,  and  I 
merely  remarked  that  in  that  case  you  could  do 
me  a  favor.  You  asked  me  what  the  favor  was, 
and  I  have  told  you." 

"  You  have  indeed  !  But  there  are  one  or  two 
small  facts  to  be  taken  into  consideration  with  re- 
gard to  it.  In  the  first  place,  I  have  not  by  any 
means  decided  to  go  to  Carolina.  In  the  second 
place,  if  I  do  go,  I  believe  the  transmontane  part 
of  the  State  is  of  rather  large  area,  and  it  may 
readily  come  to  pass  that  I  do  not  meet  your 
cousin  at  all.     In  the  third  place,  am  Za  fit  per- 


"I,  TOO,  SHEPHERDS,  IN"  ARCADIA   DWELT."    15 

son  for  the  delicate  task  of  sounding  a  lady's  af- 
fections ?  " 

"I  consider  you  a  very  fit  person,"  answers 
Sunderland.  "Don't  you  wi'ite  of  women  as  if 
you  had  turned  their  heads  and  their  hearts  inside 
out  and  knew  all  about  them  ?  You  must  have 
studied  the  sex  exhaustively  at  some  time  or 
other,  to  have  reached  such  a  state  of  certainty. 
Now,  why  not  apply  all  this  knowledge  to  the 
case  in  point  ?  " 

"Because  it  is  not  absolute  knowledge  at  all," 
replies  Charlton.  "  It  is  partly  intuition,  partly 
guess-work,  and  partly  one  of  the  tricks  of  the 
trade.  I  know  women  in  the  abstract,  but  wom- 
en in  the  concrete  puzzle  me  as  they  puzzle  every 
other  son  of  Adam.  I  might  put  your  cousin  in 
a  novel  and  analyze  her  to  my  own  and  the  reader's 
satisfaction,  but  in  real  life  the  real  woman  would, 
ten  to  one,  be  an  enigma  to  me." 

"  I  don't  think  Flora  would  be  an  enigma  to  a 
man  of  your  knowledge  of  the  world,"  remarks 
Sunderland  insinuatingly.  "This  is  not  one  of 
the  women  who  tear  one  to  pieces  with  whims 
and  vagaries.  She  was  a  frank,  straightforward, 
proud  little  soul  always." 

"And  is  it  probable  that  a  woman  like  that 
would  let  a  stranger  read  her  heart  as  if  it  were 
a  book  ?  " 

"  Let  you — no  !  But  she  is  a  girl  who  is  sim- 
plicity itself,  who  has  never  been  in  society,  and 


16  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

whose  knowledge  of  the  world  is  bounded  by  her 
native  hills.  If  you  cannot  read  her  as  if  she  were 
a  book,  you  might  as  well  burn  your  novel,  my 
dear  fellow." 

"  You  think  my  power  of  observation  would 
not  be  worth  much  in  such  a  case  ?  "  says  Charlton 
with  a  quiet  smile.  "You  may  be  right — who 
knows  ?  I  have  had  doubts  myself  on  that  subject 
sometimes  !  Perhaps,"  he  adds  meditatively,  "  this 
suggestion  of  yours  may  prove  a  crucial  test  of  my 
ability.  After  all,  if  it  were  not  for  the  trouble  of 
the  thing,  I  might  be  tempted  to  take  it  into  con- 
sideration— or  if  this  cousin  of  yours  lived  any- 
where short  of  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon." 

"  Even  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  are  near  at 
hand  in  this  age,"  says  Sunderland.  "  The  rail- 
road will  take  you  to  the  foot  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 
After  that,  you  will  find  yourself  in  a  region  where 
the  customs  and  traditions  of  fifty  years  ago  still 
linger  ;  where  the  people  are  hospitable,  and  the 
climate  is  delightful ;  where  blue  mountains  and 
flowery  valleys — " 

"  That  will  do  !  "  says  Charlton.  "  You  are 
becoming  flowery,  as  well  as  the  valleys.  I'll  take 
it  for  granted  that  the  country  is  very  fine.  Tell 
me  where  this  uncle  of  yours  lives,  and  if  there  is 
any  comfortable  farm-house  in  his  neighborhood 
where  I  could  be  lodged  decently,  and  fed  on  the 
milk  and  honey  of  the  land." 

"  Flora  will  be  able  to  tell  you  all  about  that," 


"I,  TOO,  SHEPHERDS,  IN  ARCADIA  DWELT."    17 

replies  Sunderland,  in  an  off-hand  way.  "The 
best  thing  for  you  to  do  will  be  to  go  straight  to 
my  uncle's  house.  He  is  the  most  hosj^itable  old 
fellow  in  the  world,  and  will  make  you  heartily 
welcome.  I'll  write  and  let  him  know  that  you 
are  coming — then  you  can  look  about  and  decide 
at  your  leisure  what  to  do." 

"That  may  be  according  to  your  Carolina 
fashion,  but  I  can't  say  that  I  particularly  like  the 
idea  of  presenting  myself  as  a  guest  at  the  door 
of  a  man  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  you  will  know  him  in  ten  minutes — and 
Flora,  and  George,  and  Minnie,  and  Oscar,  and  all 
the  rest  of  them.  By  Jove  !  if  it  were  not  for 
Gertrude,  I  should  like  to  be  going  with  you  ! 
But  no  doubt  I  should  be  bored  in  a  week." 

"ISTo  doubt  whatever,  I  am  inclined  to  think. 
See  !  here  is  a  map — suppose  you  show  me  exactly 
where  this  El  Dorado  is  situated  ?  " 

"  With  pleasm-e  !  "  answers  Sunderland,  start- 
ing up.  He  crosses  the  floor  and  bends  over  the 
map  which  the  other  opens.  "  Here  is  the  route 
you  must  follow,"  he  says. 


18  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"beyo:n^d  the  magic  valley  lay." 

It  is  doubtful  if  tliere  is  a  lovelier  spot,  in  all 
that  lovely  land  knoTVTi  as  Western  North  Caro- 
lina, than  the  valley  of  the  French  Broad  in 
Transylvania.  Those  who  have  only  seen  the 
river  as  it  makes  its  impetuous  way  through  the 
mountains  below  Asheville,  can  scarcely  conceive 
the  gentleness  of  its  crystal  cui'rent,  or  the  pastoral 
beauty  of  the  scenery  surrounding  it,  in  this  fair 
valley  overshadowed  by  the  cloud-capped  heights 
of  the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  Balsam  Mountains. 
The  traveler  passing  along  the  turnpikes  finds 
himself  in  a  very  Ai'cadia  of  fertile  loveliness. 
Ai-ound  on  every  side  are  great  breadths  of  rus- 
tling cornfields,  and  sweeps  of  green  meadow-land, 
bordered  by  hedges  over  which  the  sweetbrier  and 
wild  clematis  run,  and  under  which  starry  flowers 
shine.  With  many  a  winding  curve,  the  river 
flows  swiftly  by,  beneath  drooping  trees  and  tan- 
gled vines.  Here  and  there  on  its  banks  green 
knolls  swell,  on  almost  all  of  which  houses  stand. 
Beyond  the  level  farms  wooded  hillsides  rise,  while 
again  beyond  these  are  the  mountain-peaks — so 
blue,  so  soft,  so  divinely  fair — which  make  the 
background  for  every  picture. 

The  sun  is  setting  behind  these  peaks,  and 


"BEYOXD   THE   MAGIC   VALLEY   LAY."  19 

striking  with  his  last  rays  of  gold  the  tallest  tree- 
tops,  when  over  a  road  which  leads  through  an 
immense  field  of  corn — a  road  so  narrow  that  two 
vehicles  could  not  pass  abreast  without  trampling 
down  the  green  stalks  which  border  it — Flora 
Tyrrell  rides,  attended  by  her  brother  George. 
A  light  breeze  comes  to  them,  stirring  the  blades 
of  corn,  and  blowing  back  the  light  locks  of  Flora's 
hair.  Seen  thus,  in  her  closely-fitting  habit  and 
jockey  cap,  she  looks  very  small,  very  slight,  very 
young.  Yery  pretty,  too  ;  for  her  delicate  features 
are  clearly  defined,  her  complexion  has  a  charming 
bloom  which  comes  and  goes,  her  brown  hair  is 
full  of  golden  gleams,  and  her  eyes  are  like  bits 
of  heaven  in  their  blueness.  She  does  not  look  a 
day  over  eighteen,  but  she  is  in  truth  twenty,  and, 
despite  her  childlike  appearance,  has  been  for 
four  years  the  mistress  of  her  father's  house. 
George — next  in  age  to  herself — is  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  boy  of  seventeen,  with  the  same  frank 
blue  eyes  shining  out  of  a  very  tanned  and  freckled 
face,  hair  cut  so  short  that  he  looks  like  a  convict 
or  prize-fighter,  and  some  downy,  incipient  signs 
of  a  mustache,  which  fill  him  with  joy  and  ex- 
ultation. 

These  young  people  have  been  to  pay  a  visit, 
and  are  now  returning  home — riding  leisurely  and 
discussing  many  topics,  domestic  and  social. 

"  There's  a  fishing-party  going  up  to  the  Bal- 
sam next  week,"  says  George,  "and  Tom  Fan- 


20  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

sliaw  and  I  mean  to  join  it.  Several  gentlemen 
who  are  staying  in  Brevard  are  going,  and  two  or 
three  more  are  coming  from  Caesar's  Head.  We'll 
carry  tents  and  be  gone  about  a  week." 

"  AVhat  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  be  a  boy  !  " 
Flora  says,  with  a  sigh  of  envy.  "  I  should  like 
to  take  a  trip  of  that  description,  and  I  think  I 
shall  try  to  make  up  a  party  for  such  an  excursion 
later  in  the  season,  when  Harry  comes." 

"  Perhaps  Harry  may  be  here  to  go  with  us 
next  week,"  says  George.  "  How  jolly  that  would 
be  !  We'd  take  the  dogs,  and  have  some  hunting 
as  well  as  fishing.  What  a  shot  Harry  was  !  Do 
you  remember  that  sj^lendid  buck  he  killed  the 
last  deer-hunt  we  went  on  ?  He  always  had  such 
good  luck." 

"Luck  and  skill  are  different  things,  George, 
though  they  are  often  confounded,"  says  Flora, 
with  an  aii*  of  pride — which  is  for  Harry's  achieve- 
ments. 

"  That  is  all  very  fine,"  returns  George,  "  but 
don't  you  call  it  luck  when  the  dogs  run  the  deer 
right  past  a  man's  stand  ?  Other  people  besides 
Harry  can  shoot,  but  sometimes  they  wait  all  day 
without  a  chance  to  pull  trigger." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  says  Flora.  "  I  suppose 
there  is  luck  in  the  matter.  But  then,  when  you 
get  the  chance  sometimes,  do  you  not  miss  the 
deer?" 

"Well,   yes — sometimes,"   admits   George,   a 


"BEYOND   THE   MAGIC   VALLEY   LAY."  21 

little  shamefacedly.  "  But  Harry  was  always  a 
dead  shot.  When  i^  he  coming,  Floy  ?  Wher- 
ever I  go,  somebody  asks  me  that.  Everybody 
likes  Harry,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  says  Flora,  with  a  half  smile 
and  a  whole  sigh.  "  He  had  such  pleasant  man- 
ners, and  was  so  considerate  of  others — that  is 
why  people  like  him.  I  often  beg  of  you,  George, 
to  be  more  careful  of  your  manners.  But  I  do  not 
know  Tv^hen  he  is  coming.     He  has  not  said." 

Talking  in  this  manner,  they  ride  through  the 
rich  bottom-lands,  and  finally  come  to  the  river 
again,  which  has  made  a  sweeping  bend  around 
them.  A  bridge  spans  it  here,  over  which  they 
cross.  On  the  farther  side  a  hill  rises,  crowned 
by  a  gabled  house.  A  sloping  lawn  surrounds  it 
on  all  sides,  bounded  by  the  river  in  front,  and  by 
a  stone  wall  and  line  of  beautiful  white  pines  on 
the  side  where  the  road  runs.  There  is  a  gate  at 
the  end  of  the  bridge,  showing  that  it  is  all  private 
domain.  George  opens  this,  and  they  pass  into 
the  grounds.  A  carriage  drive  winds  around  the 
hill,  and  brings  them  to  the  front  of  the  building. 
Here  Flora  dismounts — slipping  lightly  to  the 
ground  without  assistance — and  gathering  up  her 
habit  enters  the  house,  while  George  takes  the 
horses  off  to  the  stable. 

A  stranger  could  not  forbear  pausing  on  the 
piazza  to  admire  the  magnificent  prospect  which 
the  situation  commands — doubly  magnificent  just 


22  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

now  from  the  glory  of  sunset  whicli  fills  with 
radiance  the  whole  western  sky  ;  but  Flora  knows 
the  prospect  better  than  she  knows  her  own  face, 
and,  much  as  she  admires  it,  she  is  at  this  moment 
thinking  of  other  things.  As  she  enters  the  hall, 
a  voice  from  the  right  calls  out,  "  Floy  !  is  that 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,"  she  answers,  and,  turning,  enters 
the  sitting-room.  It  is  a  pleasant  room  at  all 
times,  with  that  habitable  look  which  the  most 
splendid  apartment  cannot  afford  to  lack,  and  the 
grace  of  arrangement  which  some  women  know 
how  to  bestow ;  but  at  present  it  is  more  than 
merely  pleasant — it  is  lit  up  with  a  stream  of  sun- 
set light  which  transforms  its  homely  charm  into 
enchantment  for  the  time  being.  There  are  pict- 
ures on  the  walls — engravings  and  photographs 
chiefly,  framed  in  pretty  woodland  devices,  au- 
tumn leaves  and  acorns,  and  fir-cones.  The  glow 
touches  and  burnishes  these  ;  touches  also  the 
ivory  keys  of  the  open  piano,  and  the  hanging 
basket  with  trailing  sprays  of  ivy  in  the  bay-win- 
dow. The  bald  spot  on  the  back  of  Colonel  Tyr- 
rell's head  comes  in  for  its  share  of  the  illu- 
mination, and  the  open  page  of  a  letter  he  is 
reading. 

"  So  you  have  the  mail,  papa,"  says  Flora,  ad- 
vancing.    "  Is  there  anything  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  believe  there  is  a  magazine  for  you,"  her 
father  answers,  glancing  toward  the  budget  on  the 


"BEYOND  THE  MAGIC  VALLEY  LAY."    23 

table  ;  "  but  there  is  no  letter,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean." 

Her  face  falls  a  little.  "  Not  even  from 
Harry?"  she  inquires,  in  a  tone  which  hopes 
against  certainty. 

"  Not  even  from  Harry,  for  you ! "  replies 
Colonel  Tyrrell.  "But  the  scamp  has  conde- 
scended to  write  to  ine^  if  that  is  any  consolation 
to  you." 

"  Does  he  say  that  he  is  coming  ? "  she  asks, 
with  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes. 

"  Not  by  any  means,"  returns  her  father,  dry- 
ly. "  Here  is  what  he  says.  I  was  just  reading 
it  when  you  came  in,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
have  made  it  out  correctly.  He  writes  an  abomi- 
nable hand ! " 

"  I  never  find  any  difficulty  in  reading  it," 
says  Flora.  She  comes  forward  as  she  speaks, 
and,  leaning  on  her  father's  shoulder,  reads  aloud 
the  letter  in  his  hand.  This  is  what  Mr.  Sunder- 
land has  to  say : 

"  *  My  Dear  Uncle  :  I  am  more  sony  than  I 
can  tell  you  that  there  seems  no  prospect  of  my 
being  able  to  come  to  see  you  this  summer.  I 
have  been  promising  myself  that  pleasure  all 
spring,  and  wi'iting  of  it,  as  Flora  knows;  but  life 
is  made  up  of  disappointments,  and  I  must  take 
my  share  like  all  the  rest  of  mankind.  When  a 
man  puts  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  and  goes  to 


24  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

work  in  earnest,  he  should  not  look  back,  you 
know. 

"  *  In  my  present  position  I  am  not  able  to  af- 
ford a  long  holiday,  though  I  shall  probably  leave 
the  city  for  a  short  time  next  week,  accompany- 
ing a  party  of  very  agreeable  people — Flora  will 
remember  that  I  have  once  or  twice  spoken  of 
the  Prestons  of  New  Orleans — to  Canada  and 
Niagara.' " 

"  Ah,"  says  Colonel  Tyrrell,  "  that  is  putting 
his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  with  a  vengeance  !  And 
he  cannot  afford  to  come  out  to  Transylvania  ! 
If  that  boy  does  not  go  to  the  dogs —  What  next, 
Floy  ?  " 

"  *  Though  I  cannot  come  to  see  you,'  "  Flora 
reads  on,  "  *  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  sending  a 
substitute,  who  will  more  than  fill  my  place  when 
you  know  him.  He  is  a  particular  friend  of  mine, 
and,  as  such,  I  am  sure  you  will  give  him  a  wel- 
come. His  name  is  Charlton,  and  he  is  a  literary 
man  of  note  who  promises  (everybody  says)  to  be 
famous.  He  is  well  connected,  well  received,  and 
an  uncommonly  good  fellow.  Flora  will  like 
him,  and  I  commend  him  specially  to  her  kind 
ofiices.  He  has  nearly  worked  himself  to  death, 
and  wants  to  recuperate.  I  have  told  him  that 
you  will  recommend  him  to  some  ideal  farm- 
house, where  he  can  be  as  quiet  as  he  pleases,  and 
scribble  at  a  novel  he  has  on  hand.  It  would  be 
better  for  his  health  and  spii'its,  however,  if  you 


"BEYOND  THE   MAGIC  VALLEY   LAY."         25 

kept  him  with  you,  and  George  took  him  out 
deer-hunting  among  the  mountains. 

"  '  Tell  Flora,  with  my  love,  that  I  will  write 
to  her  soon.  Kindest  regards  to  all  the  house- 
hold, and  believe  me,  my  dear  uncle, 

"  *  Your  affectionate  nephew,- 

"*Henky  Suxderland.' " 

"  Upon  my  word,  that  is  cool !  "  says  Colonel 
Tyrrell,  with  emphasis,  as  his  daughter's  voice 
ceases.  "What  the  deuce  do  you  suppose  the 
scamp  means?  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  a 
particular  friend,  and  being  sure  that  we  will  re- 
ceive him  kindly  ;  but  does  he  imagine  that  I 
want  to  entertain  any  Bohemian  scribbler  that  he 
chooses  to  send  here  with  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion ?  " 

"  Harry  would  not  send  any  one  whom  you 
would  object  to  receive,  papa,  I  am  sure,"  says 
Flora,  quietly.  However  deep  the  disappoint- 
ment caused  by  the  letter,  she  bears  it  bravely 
and  makes  no  sign.  "  As  for  his  talking  about  a 
substitute — of  course  he  knows  that  is  nonsense. 
No  one  could  take  his  place." 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  is  a  place  which 
is  better  empty  than  filled,"  says  Colonel  Tyrrell, 
in  the  tone  of  one  thoroughly  vexed.  "  If  that 
letter  satisfies  you,  Floy  " — he  throws  the  letter 
in  question  impatiently  on  the  table — "  you  are 
more  foolish  about  Harry,  and  more  blinded  to 


26  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

his  bad  conduct,  than  I  gave  you  credit  for  be- 


ing." 


"  I  hope  I  am  not  foolish,"  says  Flora,  about 
whose  eyes  there  is  something  suspiciously  dewy, 
"  but  I  can't  help  thinking  that  you  are  unreason- 
able, papa,  and — and  '  bad  conduct '  is  rather  a 
harsh  term,  don't  you  think  ?  If  Harry  does  not 
want  to  come  to  see  us,  should  we  wish  him  to  do 
so,  or  feel  injured  because  he  does  not  ?  " 

Her  father  glances  at  her  keenly,  but  her  face 
being  turned  from  the  light,  he  cannot  see  the 
moisture — it  can  scarcely  be  called  tears — in  her 
eyes.  He  only  sees  the  slender,  black-robed  fig- 
ure on  a  golden  background,  and  the  soft  masses 
of  bright  hair  falling  on  the  delicate  neck. 

"  You  know  your  own  affairs  best,"  he  says 
then,  "  but  I  think  Harry  is  acting  very  badly. 
I  am  glad  that  you  are  able  to  take  it  so  philo- 
sophically. With  regard  to  this  man  whom  he 
chooses  to  send — " 

"He  may  prove  very  pleasant,"  says  Flora, 
eagerly,  glad  to  turn  from  the  subject  of  Harry's 
misdemeanors.  "  At  least  he  will  be  a  novelty. 
*A  literary  man  of  note — one  who  promises  to  be 
famous.'  The  only  thing  is  that  I  fear  I  shall 
feel  a  little  afraid  of  him  !  "  She  ends  with  a 
tremulous  laugh. 

"  It  is  a  very  unwarranted  step  on  Harry's 
part,  that  of  sending  such  a  person  here,"  says 
Colonel  Tyrrell,  gathering  up  his  newspapers  and 


"BEYOXD  THE   MAGIC   VALLEY   LAY."         27 

walking  out  on  the  piazza.  He  is,  as  Sunderland 
averred,  one  of  the  most  hospitable  men  in  exist- 
ence ;  but  he  is  chafed  with  his  nephew,  and  this 
is  his  way  of  showing  it.  If  Harry  had  written 
that  Charlton  was  coming  icitli  him,  he  would  not 
have  hesitated  to  kill  his  last  fatted  calf  to  do 
them  honor  ;  but  now,  feeling  deeply  annoyed  at 
the  offending  scapegrace,  he  turns  this  annoyance 
against  the  unoffending  stranger. 

Flora  stands  quite  still  where  she  had  been 
left,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor — her  graceful 
head  slightly  bent,  while  the  sunset  glow  falls  ten- 
derly over  her.  She  does  not  touch  Sunderland's 
letter,  which  lies  where  her  father  disdainfully 
threw  it  on  the  table,  but  her  wistful  glance  seeks 
it  out,  while  her  lips  set  themselves  together.  It 
is  only  for  a  minute  that  she  stands  in  this  atti- 
tude. Then  she  lifts  her  head  with  a  start,  and 
turns  toward  the  door.  "  You  should  not  try  to 
read  by  a  waning  light,  papa,"  she  says  to  Colo- 
nel Tyrrell  on  the  piazza.     "  I  will  order  lamps." 

At  supper  there  is  an  animated  discussion 
over  the  stranger  who  is  soon  to  make  his  appear- 
ance. George  is  scornful  ;  a  man  who  writes 
instead  of  hunting,  and  who  probably  knows  lit- 
tle or  nothing  of  fishing,  is  in  his  eyes  a  fit  sub- 
ject for  contempt.  Minnie,  who  at  fifteen  is  al- 
ready taller  than  Flora,  and  full  of  immature  co- 
quetry, is  frankly  curious  and  speculative. 

"  Will  he  be  pleasant,  do  you  think,  Floy  ?  " 


28  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

she  asks.  "And  what  has  he  written — do  we 
knoAV  his  books  ?  " 

"  The  only  books  with  which  you  ought  to  be 
acquainted  are  those  of  which  you  know  least — 
that  is,  your  school-books,"  says  her  father,  se- 
verely, before  Flora  can  reply.  "  I  shall  certainly 
send  you  to  school  in  September  ;  for,  if  this 
novel-reading  goes  on,  your  mind  will  entirely 
run  to  seed." 

Minnie  looks  extremely  injured.  "  I  don't 
have  many  novels  to  read,"  she  says.  "I  hope 
Mr.  Charlton  will  bring  his  with  him,  if  he  has 
written  any." 

Oscar  and  Nellie  are  the  only  members  of  the 
company  who  regard  the  coming  event  with  indif- 
ference. All  the  rest  are  more  or  less  interested 
in  it,  as  trifling  matters  do  interest  people  who 
live  a  monotonous  life.  Even  Mr.  Martin,  the 
tutor — a  pale  young  man,  who  laboriously  leads 
George,  Minnie,  and  Oscar  up  the  hill  of  learning, 
and  secretly  adores  Flora — wonders  anxiously 
what  the  "  author  "  will  be  like.  His  acquaint- 
ance with  th^t  class  of  men  is  very  limited,  and 
they  are  therefore  invested  in  his  eyes  with  the 
awe  and  mystery  which  always  attaches  to  the 
unkno'^Ti. 

The  household  has  time  to  subside  from  this 
little  flutter  of  expectation,  and  almost  to  forget 
it,  before  the  author  in  question  arrives.  A  week 
passes  without  any  sign  of  him.     "Perhaps  he 


"BEYOND   THE   MAGIC  VALLEY   LAY."  29 

does  not  mean  to  come  at  all,"  says  Minnie,  dis- 
consolately. She  is  the  only  person  who  is  anx- 
ious for  Mr.  Charlton's  appearance.  Flora  pri- 
vately hopes  that  he  may  not  come,  and  the  boys 
openly  express  the  same  desire.  Colonel  Tyr- 
rell's first  annoyance  is  over,  but  he  still  visits 
his  vexation  with  Harry  on  the  head  of  Harry's 
"  particular  friend,"  and  wishes  that  the  latter 
would  change  his  mind  and  turn  his  steps  in 
another  direction. 

It  may  be  safely  asserted,  as  a  general  rule, 
that  things  usually  happen  in  this  life  exactly 
contrary  to  the  manner  in  which  we  should  like 
to  arrange  them.  If  the  Tyrrell  family  wished 
to  see  Mr.  Charlton,  he  would  probably  disap- 
point them,  as  his  friend  Sunderland  has  already 
done.  Since  they  are  almost  a  unit  in  not  wish- 
ing to  see  him,  he  appears  when  they  are  least 
expecting  him. 

It  is  in  the  morning.  The  day  is  very  warm 
— at  least  as  warm  as  days  ever  get  to  be  in  this 
high,  breezy  region.  Flora  is  in  the  pantry, 
weighing  out  materials  for  a  cake,  with  the  short, 
black  cook  assisting  her,  and  Nellie  standing  by, 
a  fascinated  spectator.  On  this  scene  enter 
IMinnie,  a  French  exercise  in  her  hand,  and  live- 
liest interest  on  her  face. 

"  O  Floy  !  "  she  cries,  "  I  think  Mr.  Charlton 
is  coming  at  last!  I  was  working  at  this  hate- 
ful thing  " — French  exercise  indicated — "  on  the 


30  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

piazza,  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and, 
looking  np,  I  saw  a  buggy  coming  round  the 
drive.  I  am  sure  it  is  from  Brevard,  and  Mr. 
Charlton  must  be  in  it.  I  saw  a  gentleman  in  a 
round  hat,  and — there  !  do  you  hear  the  door- 
bell ?  " 

The  door-bell  is  unmistakably  to  be  heard, 
and  Flora  puts  down  the  scales,  looking  much 
disconcerted.  "It  may  not  be  Mr.  Charlton," 
she  says,  trying  to  reassure  herself.  "Minnie, 
you  should  not  startle  one  so  !  It  may  be  any- 
body else.  Papa  is  not  at  home,  Hester,"  she 
adds,  as  a  housemaid  hurries  by  the  open  door. 

Breathless  anxiety  follows  for  a  minute. 
"  How  many  eggs  did  you  say.  Miss  Flora  ? " 
asks  Caroline,  but  Flora  does  not  heed  the  ques- 
tion. She  is  wondermg  if  it  is  Mr.  Charlton, 
Harry's  formidable  friend.  Nellie  goes  to  the 
door  and  peeps.  Minnie  forgets  the  dignity  of 
her  fifteen  years  far  enough  to  do  likewise.  "  He 
is  coming  in  !  "  she  whispers,  looking  back  at  her 
sister.  A  moment  later  doubt  is  over — Hester 
appears  with  a  letter  and  a  card  in  her  hand.  The 
letter  is  addressed,  in  Sunderland's  well-known 
writing,  to  Colonel  Tyrrell  ;  the  card  bears  the 
name  of  Geoffrey  Charlton. 

"The  gentleman  asked  for  master,"  Hester 
says,  addressing  her  young  mistress,  "  and  when 
I  told  him  he  wasn't  at  home,  he  told  me  to  give 
those  to  Miss  Tyrrell." 


"MY  LOVE  SHE'S  BUT  A  LASSIE  YET."       31 

"  I  told  you  it  was  Mr.  Charlton  !  "  says  Min- 
nie, triumphantly. 

Flora  says  nothing  ;  she  merely  unfastens  the 
large  domestic  apron  which  covers  the  front  of 
her  dress,  and  walks  out  of  the  pantry. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"my  loye  she's  but  a  lassie  yet." 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Mr.  Charlton 
has  been  very  pleasantly  impressed  by  all  that  he 
has  seen  so  far  of  the  home  of  the  Tyrrells.  The 
beauty  of  the  situation  charms  his  eye  at  once — 
especially  since  it  bursts  upon  him  with  sudden 
effect  from  his  having  approached  the  house  in 
the  rear.  "  This  is  Arcadia  indeed  !  "  he  thinks, 
when  he  sees  the  outspread  beauty  of  the  fertile 
valley,  the  bright  river  winding  through  it,  the 
magical  distance  beyond — mountains  overtopping 
mountains  until  the  farthest  heights  melt  into 
blue  infinity — cloud-shadows  shifting  and  falling 
over  the  wooded  hillsides,  a  clearness  in  all  the 
tints,  a  brilliancy  in  the  atmosphere  which  is  al- 
together beyond  the  power  of  words  to  describe. 

He  is  astonished  as  well  as  charmed.  It  is  so 
seldom  in  life  that  one's  longing  foi;  an  ideal 
pleasure  or  happiness  of  any  kind  is  gratified, 
that  one  is  justified  in  the  incredulity  with  which 


32  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

one  generally  regards  such  a  gratification  wlien  it 
comes.  Charlton  has  told  himself  more  than  once 
since  he  began  his  journey  that  he  is  a  fool — that 
he  will  find  nothing  at  his  destination  to  repay 
him  for  such  an  expedition.  Now,  all  in  a  min- 
ute, he  feels  that  he  is  repaid.  Already  a  subtile 
sense  of  repose  is  borne  to  the  weary  brain  and 
overstrained  nerves.  Let  his  work  be  what  it  will 
— and  he  would  be  the  first  to  tell  you  that  it  is 
poor  enough — his  is  the  true  artistic  temperament 
which  feels  beauty  of  color,  form,  and  tone,  in 
every  fibre.  This  bright  loveliness  thrills  him  as 
one  keenly  alive  to  music  is  thrilled  by  the  first 
exulting  notes  from  a  full  orchestra,  l^o  matter 
what  the  people  whom  he  is  going  to  meet  may 
be — and  he  has  serious  misgivings  on  that  score — 
he  has  found  his  place  of  rest,  his  sylvan  city  of 
refuge. 

It  has  been  already  said  that  Hester  meets 
him  at  the  door  and  receives  his  card.  She  ushers 
him  across  a  hall,  where  branching  antlers  hang, 
into  the  sitting-room.  Left  here,  he  glances  round 
critically,  as  he  has  already  glanced  at  the  outside 
of  the  house.  The  uncarpeted  floor  is  stained  and 
polished,  and  there  are  soft  rugs  before  several  of 
the  couches  and  deep  easy-chairs.  A  large,  old- 
fashioned  centre-table  is  piled  with  books  and  pa- 
pers ;  the  piano  is  oj^en,  and  some  exercises  in 
scales  stand  on  the  music-rack  ;  in  the  bay-win- 
dow at  the  end  of  the  apartment  are  a  low  chair 


"MY   LOVE  SHE'S  BUT  A  LASSIE  YET."        33 

and  a  woman's  vork-basket.  Other  windows  open 
on  the  piazza  outside,  green  shade  droops  beyond, 
the  murmur  of  the  river  comes  in,  and  a  gentle 
breeze  moves  the  curtains.  Over  the  mantelpiece 
is  a  fine  engraving  from  one  of  Landseer's  paint- 
ings ;  above  the  piano  a  head  of  St.  Cecilia  hangs. 
Charlton  observes  these  things.  "  For  once  luck 
has  befriended  me  ! "  he  says  meditatively  to 
himself. 

He  is  standing  by  one  of  the  windows  when 
Flora  enters.  He  hears  the  rustling  sweep  of  her 
dress  as  she  crosses  the  floor,  and  turns.  They 
meet  by  the  centre-table. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Charlton,"  says  the 
young  lady.  "  My  cousin  wrote  of  you  some  time 
ago,  and  we  have  been  expecting  you  ever  since. 
I  am  sorry  papa  is  not  at  home  just  now  ;  but  he 
will  return  presently." 

"You  are  exceedingly  kind,  Miss  T^nrell," 
says  Charlton,  bowing.  First  impressions  are 
strong,  and  he  is  not  likely  to  forget  the  gracious 
tact  of  this  reception.  To  tell  a  man  that  he  has 
been  expected  is  to  put  him  at  his  ease  at  once  ; 
and  this  Flora,  by  the  simple  instinct  of  courtesy 
and  hospitality,  has  done.  "  Your  cousin  assured 
me  that  I  might  venture  to  hope  for  a  very  pleas- 
ant welcome  if  I  presented  myself  in  his  name," 
he  goes  on  ;  "  and  I  see  that  he  was  not  mistaken." 

"  A  friend  of  Harry's  could  not  fail  to  be  wel- 
come," says  Flora.  "Pray  sit  down.  Do  you 
3 


34  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

come  from  Aslieville  ?  I  fear  you  must  have 
found  our  roads  very  rough." 

"  On  the  contrary,  much  better  than  I  ex- 
pected," answers  Charlton.  He  sits  down  as  he 
sj^eaks  in  the  chair  which  she  indicates,  and,  while 
he  praises  the  excellence  of  the  roads,  looks  at 
her,  and  takes  in  every  detail  of  her  personal  ap- 
pearance. He  is  struck  at  once  by  her  youth  and 
her  fair  looks — though  these  looks  fall  far  short 
of  what  many  people  would  consider  beauty.  He 
notes  the  sweetness  of  the  lips,  the  frank  candor 
of  the  eyes,  the  width  of  the  white  brow,  the 
graceful  ai*ch  of  the  well-poised  head  ;  and  he 
knows  what  all  these  things,  separately  and  collec- 
tively, signify.  He  notes,  also,  the  low,  sweet 
tone  of  her  voice,  and  is  surprised  by  the  gentle 
repose  of  her  manners. 

She,  on  her  part,  looks  at  him,  and  thinks  that 
Harry's  friend  is  not  so  alarming  after  all.  What 
she  sees  is  a  spare,  well-knit  man  of  thirty-two  or 
three,  with  an  intellectual  but  not  handsome  face, 
out  of  which  quiet  hazel  eyes  meet  her  own.  The 
brows  above  are  very  dark  and  decided  ;  dark 
also  the  crisp  hair,  which  has  perceptibly  thinned 
on  the  temples,  and  the  heavy  mustache  and  Eng- 
lish whiskers. 

They  have  been  talking  commonplaces  while 
they  scrutinize  each  other  in  this  manner,  and 
Flora  sounds  the  first  note  of  something  different 
when  she  says  :    "  I  hope  you  left  Harry  well  ? 


"MY    LOVE   SHE'S  BUT  A  LASSIE   YET."        35 

He  wrote  that  he  was  going  to  Canada  with  a 
party  of  friends." 

"  When  I  saw  him  last  he  was  very  well  in- 
deed," replied  Charlton,  "but  that  was  not  for 
several  days  before  I  left  the  city.  His  departure 
antedated  mine." 

"  We  have  not  seen  him  since  he  left  Carolina 
two  years  ago,"  says  Flora  quietly,  "and  there- 
fore we  hoped  that  he  would  come  this  summer  ; 
but  it  seems  we  are  not  to  be  gratified.  He  ^vrites 
that  we  are  to  take  you  as  his  substitute,  Mr. 
Charlton.     How  do  you  like  the  idea  ?  " 

Charlton  shrugs  his  shoulders  slightly.  "It 
would  be  very  pleasant  for  me,"  he  says,  "  but  I 
cannot  think  that  it  would  be  satisfactory  as  far 
as  Sunderland's  friends  are  concerned.  He  is  one 
of  the  most  agreeable  and  popular  people  in  the 
world,  while  I — well,  it  is  not  good  taste  to  abuse 
one's  self,  so  I  will  leave  you  to  discover  what  I 
am.  Miss  Tyrrell." 

"  I  have  already  discovered  that  you  are  very 
modest,"  says  Flora,  smiling. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  must  not  let  you 
begin  our  acquaintance  with  a  mistaken  idea  of 
me.  I  am  not  modest  at  all — sometimes  I  enter- 
tain an  insufferably  good  opinion  of  myself  ;  but 
then  I  know,  and  take  no  credit  for  knowing, 
what  I  am  not.  You  are  probably  aware  that 
Sunderland  is  an  exceptionally  pleasant  person." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  say  so." 


36  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

"Not  in  the  least.  Why  is  it  kind  to  admit 
excellence  which  we  cannot  alter  by  one  jot  or 
tittle?  Sunderland  is  exceptionally  pleasant — 
even  in  the  great  metropolis,  where  he  is  now, 
people  feel  his  charm.  I  am  not  surprised,  there- 
fore, that  I  have  found  such  a  warm  recollection 
of  him  here  in  his  native  country.  Even  the  boy 
who  drove  me  over  from  Brevard  dilated  upon 
his  prowess  in  hunting  and  woodcraft." 

"  I  fear  you  will  hear  a  great  deal  of  that  from 
my  brothers,"  says  Flora.  "  Harry  is  their  ideal 
of  manly  excellence." 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  yours  ! "  Charlton  thinks, 
glancing  at  the  gentle,  self-possessed  face. 

"While  he  is  thinking  this,  a  welcome  sound 
comes  to  Flora's  ears — that  of  her  father's  step  in 
the  hall.  He  has  entered  from  the  stables,  for  she 
hears  him  put  doT\Ti  his  whip  and  riding-gloves. 
A  minute  later  he  enters  the  room,  is  presented  to 
Charlton,  and  shakes  that  gentleman  cordially  by 
the  hand.  He  has  felt  irritably  averse  to  seeing  a 
stranger,  but  now  that  the  stranger  has  come  it 
would  not  be  possible  to  make  him  other  than 
heartily  welcome. 

"  You  will  stay  with  us,  of  course,"  he  says 
after  the  first  salutations  are  over.  "  What,  not 
prepared  ? — your  trunk  in  Brevard  ?  Send  for  it, 
then — I  will  send  a  messen2:er  at  once." 

"That  is  quite  unnecessary,"  says  Charlton. 
"I  have  a  buggy  at  the  door." 


"MY  LOVE  SHE'S  BUT  A   LASSIE   YET."        37 

"But  it  need  not  come  back,"  says  Colonel 
Tyrrell.  "  Give  the  boy  a  note — that  will  be  suf- 
ficient.    Floy,  have  you  writing-materials  ?  " 

In  this  way  Charlton — not  greatly  against  his 
\^dll — finds  himself  taken  prisoner.  After  dis- 
patching the  note,  and  talking  for  a  short  time 
with  Colonel  Tyrrell,  he  is  conducted  to  a  room 
which  was  made  ready  for  him  several  days  be- 
fore— a  pretty,  aiiy  apartment,  the  windows  of 
which  command  the  same  view  that  he  admired 
down-stairs  ;  and  having  been  informed  that  the 
dinner-hour  is  two  o'clock,  he  is  left  here. 

"  What  a  pleasant  haven  !  "  he  thinks,  looking 
round.  A  table  stands  by  one  of  the  windows, 
before  which  is  a  perfect  lace-work  of  shade — 
green  touched  with  gold.  An  inviting  chintz- 
covered  chair  is  near.  It  is  an  ideal  place  in  which 
to  rest,  or  dream,  or  work. 

At  dinner  he  meets  and  is  introduced  to  the 
assembled  family.  His  presence  overawes  the 
junior  members  somewhat,  and  there  is  not  as 
much  gay  talk  and  laughter  as  usual  among  them; 
but  the  boys  incline  to  a  large-minded  tolerance 
for  his  literary  labors  when  they  find  that  he 
knows  something  of  out-door  sports,  and  is  not 
averse  to  learning  more. 

"  This  country  is  so  much  a  terra  incognita  to 
the  majority  of  travelers,"  he  says,  "that  I,  who 
have  merely  wandered  hither  through  the  lucky 
accident  of  knowing  Sunderland,  must  learn  as 


38  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

much  about  it  as  I  can,  in  order  to  enlighten  the 
rest  of  the  world,  as  far  as  my  efforts  are  able  to 
do  so,  when  I  return.  I  trust  that  you,  sir  " — he 
addresses  Colonel  Tyrrell — "will  add  to  your 
kindness  by  directing  me  how  best  to  make  a  tour 
through  it." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  so,"  replies  Colonel 
Tyrrell.  "  You  had  better  rest  and  recruit  your 
health  for  a  week  or  ten  days  ;  and  after  it  is 
thoroughly  established,  you  can  make  excursions 
to  all  points  of  interest  in  the  country  around." 

"Zam  just  back  from  the  Balsam,"  puts  in 
George.  "  We  were  a  party  of  six,  and  we  had  a 
glorious  time.  The  streams  up  there  are  so  full 
of  speckled  trout  that  you  can  catch  'em  by  the 
hundi'eds  just  for  the  trouble  of  throwing  your 
line  in  the  water." 

"  If  I  may  be  pardoned  for  the  ignorance  which 
the  inquiry  displays,"  says  Charlton,  "where  is 
the  Balsam?" 

To  answer  that  question  intelligently,  Colonel 
Tyrrell  proceeds  to  draw  a  map  of  the  region  on 
the  table-cloth  with  one  point  of  a  fork,  tracing 
off  in  a  general  way  the  mountain  chains  which 
surround  and  the  ranges  which  cross  it.  Charl- 
ton looks  on  interestedly,  and  presently,  turning 
to  Flora,  asks  if  she  has  explored  it  all. 

She  shakes  her  head.  "  By  no  means.  I  know 
our  own  valley  and  all  surrounding  it  very  well ; 
but  I  have  never  been  in  the  remoter  parts  of  the 


"MY   LOVE  SHE'S  BUT  A  LASSIE   YET."        39 

mountains,  among  the  Balsam  or  the  Cullowhee 
Mountains." 

"  But  you  want  to  go,  Floy  —  you  know  you 
do,"  says  Oscar  ;  "  and  when  I  am  grown  I  will 
take  you." 

"  I  hope  Miss  Tyrrell  will  not  need  to  wait  so 
loDg  for  an  escort,"  says  Charlton,  smiling. 

When  he  smiles  his  face  lights  up  very  ge- 
nially, though  in  repose  it  is  rather  impassive  ; 
and  seeing  it  now  in  a  broad  light.  Flora  perceives 
that  it  looks  worn  and  pallid.  The  temples  are 
sunken,  and  there  are  the  dark  circles  under  the 
eyes  which  a  sedentary  life  and  mental  toil  soon 
bring.  Contrasted  with  the  ruddy,  sunburned 
faces  near,  Mr.  Charlton,  in  short,  looks  decidedly 
out  of  health. 

After  dinner  he  pauses  in  the  hall  and  asks 
which  of  the  boys  will  pilot  him  out  among  the 
hills.  "  I  don't  care  where,"  he  says,  "  so  it  is 
out-of-doors." 

"  We  are  going  fishing,"  says  Oscar.  "  If  you 
would  like  to  come — " 

"Just  the  thing,"  says  Charlton,  taking  his  hat. 

At  sunset  the  boys  return,  carrying  a  fine  string 
of  fish  and  full  of  enthusiasm  with  regard  to  their 
companion. 

"  He's  a  first-rate  fellow  !  "  says  George.  "  I 
hadn't  any  idea  that  a  man  who  wi'ofe  would  like 
the  things  he  does.     He's  a  good  fisherman,  and 


40  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

he  says  he's  a  tolerable  shot — we  are  going  hunt- 
ing to-morrow." 

^*  I  shouldn't  think  a  writer  would  care  about 
such  things  as  fishing  and  hunting,"  observes 
Minnie,  scornfully. 

"  But  you  see  he  is  a  writer,  and  he  does  care," 
replies  her  brother.  "  He  has  hunted  moose  and 
caribou  in  Nova  Scotia,  and  caught  trout  at  Cape 
Breton.  Do  you  know  where  Cape  Breton  is, 
Miss  Minnie  ?    Let  me  hear  you  bound  it." 

This  conversation  takes  place  in  the  dining- 
room,  just  before  supper.  It  is  cut  short  by 
Hester's  ringing  the  bell  ;  and  the  gentlemen, 
who  have  been  talking  on  the  piazza,  come  in. 
Charlton  thinks,  as  he  enters,  that  the  pretty,  old- 
fashioned  tea-table  has  an  attractive  appearance. 
Everything  has  a  quaint,  pastoral  seeming  to  his 
metropolitan  eyes.  The  distinctively  Southern 
breads,  the  fish  that  a  few  hours  ago  were  placid- 
ly swimming  in  their  native  element,  the  amber 
honey  in  the  honeycomb — all  have  an  Arcadian 
flavor  to  the  man  of  clubs  and  cafes. 

After  supper  the  gloaming  still  holds  the 
world  in  a  spell  of  beauty.  Lamps  are  carried 
into  the  sitting-room,  but  only  Minnie  follows 
them,  and  sits  down  by  the  table  to  read  a  novel. 
The  trio  of  gentlemen — for  Mr.  Martin  makes  one 
of  the  family  circle — return  to  the  piazza  to 
smoke.  Though  debarred  from  enjoying  this 
luxury,  George  and  Oscar  join  the  group.     Flora, 


"MY  LOVE   SHE'S  BUT  A  LASSIE   YET."       41 

accompanied  by  Nellie,  who  is  her  usual  shadow, 
strolls  down  the  lawn  to  the  river-bank. 

The  air  is  fresh  and  fragrant,  filled  with  the 
odor  of  many  different  growing  things — that  in- 
definable perfume  which  evening  always  brings 
out  on  a  water-course.  The  breadths  of  cultivated 
land  stretch  away  into  softest  distance  ;  near  at 
hand  the  hills  are  draped  in  tender  shades  of  pur- 
ple and  blue,  but  farther  off  the  violet  peaks  stand 
outlined  against  a  sky  of  pale  gold,  flecked  here 
and  there  with  rosy  vapors,  out  of  which  Venus 
shines  with  serene  lustre.  The  sunset  illumina- 
tion is  over,  but  this  twilight  is  scarcely  less  beau- 
tiful. 

"  What  a  lovely  evening,  Miss  Tyrrell  ! "  says 
a  quiet,  well-modulated  voice  at  her  side.  She 
starts  and  turns.  Unheard,  Charlton  has  ap- 
proached over  the  grass.  "  Like  Paul  Pry,  let 
me  say  that  '  I  hope  I  don't  intrude,' "  he  adds. 
"  But  I  am  not  particularly  fond  of  smoking,  and 
you  seemed  to  be  enjoying  the  gloaming,  so  I 
thought  I  might  venture  to  follow." 

"  Certainly,"  answers  Flora,  with  her  gentle 
accent ;  but  he  is  a  man  of  quick  perceptions,  and 
he  feels  that  he  has  intruded  on  some  mood  to 
which  his  presence  is  not  attuned.  It  is  too  late 
for  retreat,  however,  and  when  she  says,  "  We  are 
looking  at  Yenus — Nellie  and  I,"  he  replies  : 

"  How  brilliant  she  is  ! — and  that  mountain- 
line  yonder,  how  exquisitely  it  is  defined  against 


42  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

the  sky  !  What  an  enchanted  place  this  seems  to 
be  altogether  !  I  suppose  it  does  not  strike  you 
so,  since  you  live  here  always  ;  but  to  me — " 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  says,  as  he  pauses. 
"  It  strikes  me  all  the  more,  perhaps,  for  living 
here.  I  know  these  mountains  in  all  their  changes, 
and  never  weary  of  them.  But  I  am  glad  that 
you  like  our  country,  Mr.  Charlton.  I  hope  you 
will  stay  with  us  as  long  as  you  like  it." 

"  That  might  be  too  long,"  he  answers.  "  But 
you  are  very  kind.     I  hope  to  stay  some  time." 

"  And  you  will  do  as  you  please,  I  hope,"  she 
goes  on  with  timid  yet  charming  grace.  "  I  mean 
you  will  feel  at  home,  and  regulate  your  time  and 
occupations  without  regard  to  us." 

"  You  are  more  than  kind,"  he  says,  grateful- 
ly ;  "  but  Sunderland  told  me  that  you  would 
recommend  me  to  some  quiet  farm-house — " 

"  Is  not  this  house  quiet  enough  for  you  ?  "  she 
asks.  "  I  fear  you  are  hopelessly  taken  captive. 
Harry  said  we  must  keep  you,  and  papa  vfill  never 
agree  to  let  you  go." 

Charlton  looks  resigned  to  captivity.  "  I  can 
hardly  realize  my  good  fortune,"  he  says.  "  I 
undertook  this  journey  in  a  spirit  of  complete  in- 
difference, and  I  had  no  idea  of  being  so  well  re- 
warded at  the  end  of  it.  In  a  measure,  this  is  not 
all  holiday  with  me.  I  have  come  to  work  as 
well  as  to  rest.  But  nevertheless  I  mean  to  ex- 
plore this  El  Dorado  of  yours.  Miss  Tyrrell.    Will 


"IN  NATURE'S  EYES."  43 

you  tell  me  again  the  names  of  those  places  you 
mentioned  at  dinner  ?  And  where  are  they  to  be 
found  ?  " 

"  Come  to  the  house,  and  I  will  show  vou  on 
the  map,"  says  Flora,  turning  and  leading  the  way 
back  over  the  la-svTi.  They  hear  Colonel  Tyrrell's 
voice  talking  on  the  piazza  ;  through  the  open 
window  of  the  sitting-room  they  see  the  globe- 
like lamj)s,  and  Minnie's  fair  head  bent  over  her 
book.  Behind  them  the  tender  glow  of  the  sunset 
still  lingers  over  the  darkening  mountains  ;  stars 
are  gleaming  out  in  the  misty  sky  above  ;  all 
around  is  fragrance  and  stillness — stillness  which 
seems  filled  rather  than  broken  by  the  soft  rush 
of  the  river,  as  it  flows  along  the  base  of  the  sum- 
mer hills. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  IX  nature's  eyes  to  look  and  to  rejoice." 

Several  days  pa«s,  and  the  manuscript  of  his 
novel  lies  untouched  in  Mr.  Charlton's  trunk. 
"  Rest  must  come  before  work,"  that  gentleman 
says  to  himself  ;  and  rest  with  him  means  to  steep 
his  spirit  as  much  as  possible  in  the  loveliness  of 
Nature.  Consequently,  his  days  are  spent  out-of- 
doors.  He  goes  hunting  with  George,  he  goes 
fishing  with  Oscar,  he  goes  riding  with  the  colo- 
nel, and,  above  all,  he  goes  walking  by  himself. 


44  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

He  is  the  least  troublesome  of  visitors,  Flora  de- 
cides. The  others  grow  used  to  his  presence,  and 
the  placid  current  of  the  household  existence  flows 
on  as  if  he  made  no  part  of  it. 

After  a  while  he  rouses  from  the  lethargy 
which  for  a  time  seems  to  weigh  upon  him — the 
reaction  from  a  severe  strain  of  mental  toil — and 
in  the  pure  air,  the  absolute  rej)ose,  the  regular 
life  which  surrounds  him,  finds  his  body  recover 
health  and  his  mind  regain  its  tone.  Then  he  ex- 
erts himself  to  return,  at  least  in  a  measure,  the 
kindness  so  unobtrusively  showered  upon  him.  It  is 
not  difficult  to  do  this.  People  like  the  Tyrrells, 
who  live  remote  from  the  great  centres  of  culture, 
yet  are  not  without  mental  and  social  refinement, 
welcome  gladly  anything  which  brings  into  their 
life  a  breath  of  the  world  far  away.  'No  one 
questions  Mr.  Charlton  concerning  the  famous 
places  he  has  visited,  or  the  famous  people  he  has 
known  ;  but  when  he  begins  to  speak  of  them  vol- 
untarily, he  finds  eager  and  attentive  listeners. 
Flora  in  especial  is  always  interested,  and  one 
day,  meeting  her  frank,  intelligent  eyes,  he  sud- 
denly remembers  that  he  has  not  yet  advanced  a 
step  toward  executing  Sunderland's  commission. 
What  degree  of  affection  or  fancy  this  gentle 
maiden  has  for  her  cousin  he  does  not  know.  It 
occurs  to  him  that  it  ought  to  be  easy  for  him  to 
learn  :  and  he  forthwith  decides  to  brino:  to  bear 
on  Miss  Tyrrell  all  that  worldly  knowledge  and 


"IN  NATURE'S   EYES."  45 

professional  observation  of  which  Sunderland 
spoke.  "  She  is  an  interesting  study,"  he  thinks. 
"  If  I  draw  her  out,  I  may  make  her  character  of 
use  in  my  novel.  It  strikes  me  that  Bertha " — 
this  is  one  of  his  heroines — "  is  very  much  of  a 
nonentity.  If  she  were  drawn  a  little  more  on 
the  model  of  this  young  chatelaine^  it  might  im- 
prove her." 

Opportunities  for  the  study  in  question  are 
not  lacking.  An  hour  or  two  after  this  reflection, 
Oscar  rushes  up-stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time,  and 
knocks  on  Mr.  Charlton's  door  as  if  an  earthquake 
were  imminent. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Come  in  !  "  says  that 
gentleman,  who  has  just  settled  himself  to  his 
neglected  work. 

"  Mr,  Charlton  ! "  cries  Oscar,  opening  the 
door  at  once,  "  don't  you  want  to  go  to  the  Falls 
of  Conestee  ?  We  are  all  going,  and  sister  Floy 
told  me  to  ask  you — " 

"  Certainly,  I  want  to  go,"  answers  Mr.  Charl- 
ton, rising  with  alacrity.  He  has  not  the  faintest 
idea  where  the  Falls  of  Conestee  are,  nor  what 
they  are,  nor  anything  about  them  ;  but  he  is  as 
eager  as  Oscar  for  anything  which  will  take  him 
out  into  the  open  air  and  among  the  fair  hills. 

When  he  goes  do^\Ti  he  finds  the  family  assem- 
bled on  the  piazza,  while  a  light  and  convenient 
wagonette  stands  before  the  door,  together  with 
two  horses  saddled  for  riding.     Flora  meets  him. 


46  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

"  Papa  insisted  that  I  should  send  for  you," 
she  says  ;  "  but  should  you  really  like  to  go  with 
us  ?  Pray  do  not  hesitate  to  say  '  No,'  if  you 
would  rather  not." 

"  Why  should  you  imagine  that  I  would  rather 
not  ? "  asks  Charlton.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  am 
as  anxious  as  possible  to  go.  But  where  are  you 
bound  ?  " 

She  laughs.  "Your  faith  is  charming,"  she 
says.  "  You  are  anxious  to  go,  and  have  not  an 
idea  where  we  are  bound  !  AYell,  we  are  going 
to  a  place  which  I  think  will  repay  you  for  the 
exertion  you  are  about  to  make — that  is,  the  Falls 
of  Conestee.     Now,  will  you  ride  or  drive  ?  " 

Charlton  sees  that  she  wears  a  habit,  and  an- 
nounces that  he  will  ride.  Colonel  Tyrrell  is  not 
going.  Mr.  Martin,  George,  Oscar,  Minnie,  and 
Nellie  climb  into  the  wagonette  and  drive  merri- 
ly off.  Charlton  assists  his  companion  to  the  sad- 
dle, then  mounts  himself,  and  they  follow. 

The  afternoon  is  perfect — still,  golden,  and 
beautiful  ;  and  the  distant  peaks  seem  clear-cut 
against  the  sky.  All  of  summer's  abounding 
wealth  is  spread  over  the  lovely  valley,  while  the 
greenness  which  clothes  the  land  from  crested 
hill  to  level  meadow  is  full  of  freshness  and  de- 
light. Shadows  quiver,  blades  of  corn  softly 
rustle,  and  there  is  a  subdued  medley  of  sweet 
pastoral  sounds  in  the  air. 

Crossing  the  bridge,  they  ride  through  the 


"IN  NATURE'S  EYES."  47 

cornfields,  and  along  the  banks  of  tlie  swiftly- 
flowing  stream,  until  they  reach  the  foot  of  that 
mountain  which  in  this  land  of  mountains  is  only 
known  as  "Mill  Hill."  Here  cool  green  woods 
droop,  overshadowing  hillsides  rise,  streams  ripple 
through  mosses  and  over  stones  with  impetuous 
dash,  the  verdure  is  tropical  in  its  luxuriance. 
As  they  mount  higher — for  the  well-graded  road 
winds  in  sweeping  curves  around  the  mountain — 
distant  views  open  before  them.  Hill  rises  behind 
hill,  peak  beyond  peak  ;  the  sapphire  mountains 
spread  to  meet  the  sky.  Their  road  is  now  a  mere 
shelf  along  the  mountain-side,  and  before  long 
they  hear  the  turbulent  dash  of  water  in  the  gorge 
below. 

"  That  is  the  stream  from  the  falls,"  says  Flora. 
"  Look  1  you  can  catch  glimpses  of  the  water 
foaming  over  the  rocks." 

Only  a  glimpse  through  interlacing  greenness 
of  curling  foam  and  glancing  spray — then  anoth- 
er glimpse,  and  yet  another,  until  the  road  turns 
and  leads  them  away.  They  have  by  this  time 
reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  pause  near  the 
spot  where  the  wagonette  has  been  left  empty  in 
the  shade.  Here  they  dismount,  and  Charlton 
fastens  the  horses.  This  accomplished,  Flora 
gathers  up  her  habit  and  they  walk  past  a  small, 
old-fashioned  mill,  with  the  sound  of  rushing 
water  momentarily  becoming  clearer  in  their  ears, 
until  they  reach  a  spot  from  which  they  command 


48  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

a  view  of  the  fall  that  is  filling  all  the  cloistered 
dimness  with  its  voice.  Charlton  looks  around, 
amazed.  He  expected  a  pretty,  silvery  cascade, 
and  he  is  altogether  surprised  by  the  flashing 
splendor  of  the  tumultuous  waters  before  him. 
The  stream  makes  its  first  fall  in  one  clear,  beau- 
tiful cataract  of  about  fifty  feet,  then  dashes  down 
the  gorge  in  a  series  of  rapids,  lashing  itself  to 
white  foam  over  and  around  the  massive  rocks 
that  line  its  course.  Two  hundred  feet  below  an- 
other stream  pours  into  it,  and  then,  pent  in  a 
narrow  channel,  with  a  declination  of  forty-five 
or  fifty  degrees,  the  united  current  tumbles, 
whirls,  and  surges  for  five  hundred  feet  farther. 

"  One  must  have  recourse  to  Wordsworth,  I 
think,"  says  Charlton,  at  last.  Then  he  repeats 
those  lines  which  describe  a  form  of  ecstasy  that 
every  lover  of  Nature  must  have  felt : 

"  '  The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  ;  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite — a  feeling  and  a  love 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm.'  " 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Flora.  "  I  am  glad  some 
one  has  said  something  worthy  of  the  place." 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  bringing  me  to 
such  a  place,"  says  Charlton.  "  It  is  a  haunt  for 
the  gods  !  One  might  expect  to  see  Diana  and 
her  nymphs — if  it  were  not  for  the  mill." 


"IN  NATURE'S  EYES."  49 

"  That  is  barbarous,  is  it  not  ?  But  to  the  per- 
son who  built  it  that  lovely  fall  only  commended 
itself  as  an  excellent  water-power.  I  regret  to 
say  that  such  barbarism  is  very  common," 

"  It  would  harrow  an  artist's  soul,"  says  Charl- 
ton. "  But  where  are  the  rest  of  the  party  ?  I 
see  nothing  of  them." 

Flora  points  down  the  gorge.  "  They  are 
there  somewhere,"  she  says.  "  I  hope  Mr.  Martin 
will  take  care  of  Nellie.  I  am  always  uneasy — 
Ah,  yonder  they  come  !  " 

Charlton  is  not  overjoyed  to  hear  this.  The 
society  of  one  gentle  intelligent  companion — one 
who  makes  no  effort  herself,  and  demands  no  ef- 
fort of  him — is  pleasant,  even  in  this  haunt  of  the 
gods.  But  a  set  of  noisy  boys  and  girls  are  worse 
even  than  the  projecting  mill.  Mr.  Martin  comes 
up,  breathless  with  his  scramble  over  the  rocks, 
but  enthusiastic.  He  is  a  devoted  naturalist,  and 
he  has  found  several  rare  and  beautiful  plants. 
He  shows  them  to  Flora,  who  is  something  of  a 
botanist,  and  they  discuss  them  with  so  much  in- 
terest that  Charlton  walks  away,  slightly  bored 
and  a  trifle  annoyed.  As  he  proceeds  down  the 
stream,  he  finds  Minnie  in  a  dark  recess,  overhung 
by  shelving  rock,  on  her  hands  and  knees.  Turn- 
ing her  pretty  flushed  face,  she  sees  him  and 
rises. 

"  Such  lovely  moss  !  "  she  says,  holding  it  out. 

"  May  I  come  with  you,  Mr,  Charlton  ?  "  cries 
4 


50  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

Nellie,  springing  forward,  and  taking  his  smile 
for  assent. 

Ferns,  "which  Nature  made  for  pure  leaves, 
just  to  show  what  she  could  do  in  that  line," 
abound  in  almost  countless  variety.  Even  Nellie 
has  her  apron  full  of  them.  She  generously  offers 
Mr.  Charlton  as  many  as  he  wants,  and  he  selects 
one  of  the  delicate  maidenhairs  to  please  her. 
They  are  sitting  together  on  an  enormous  rock 
overlooking  the  lower  fall  ;  and  as  she  glances 
up,  he  thinks  how  like  her  flower-like  eyes  are  to 
Flora's. 

Will  you  keep  it  ?  "  she  asks  gravely. 

As  long  as  I  live,"  he  answers,  gallantly,  and 
taking  out  his  pocket-book  places  it  between  the 
leaves,  scribbling  the  name  and  date  above  it. 
Then,  since  the  book  and  pencil  are  in  his  hands, 
he  goes  on  to  jot  down  a  few  notes  of  the  scene, 
and  one  or  two  thoughts  that  have  occurred  to 
him.  Engrossed  in  this  manner,  he  does  not  no- 
tice his  companion,  further  than  to  answer  her 
prattle  very  much  at  random.  The  demoiselle 
feels  and  resents  this  neglect.  Gathering  her  col- 
lection of  ferns  together,  she  announces  her  in- 
tention of  going  to  "Floy."  Charlton,  who  is 
writing  busily,  does  not  hear  her,  and  so  he  does 
not  interfere  when  she  begins  the  descent  of  the 
rock.  He  is  not  conscious  that  she  has  quitted  his 
side  until  he  is  roused  in  a  manner  that  he  never 
forgets.     Only  a  child's  cry — but  the  earth  open- 


"IN  NATURE'S  EYES."  51 

ing  at  his  feet  could  not  startle  him  more.  In- 
stinctively he  springs  forward,  his  book  and  pen- 
cil dropping  unheeded  from  his  hands.  But  Nellie 
is  gone. 

Strong  man  that  he  is,  a  faintness  comes  over 
Charlton  that  threatens  to  unnerve  him  altogether, 
as  he  glances  round  and  sees  no  sign  of  her.  There 
is  no  use  in  calling  aloud  ;  the  waters  drowm  all 
sound — it  was  almost  miraculous  that  he  heard 
that  faint  cry  a  moment  back.  He  swings  him- 
self down  the  rock  with  headlong  speed,  and  on 
the  bank  overlooking  the  stream  gazes  round  with 
a  passionate  appeal  in  his  glance. 

It  seems  an  age,  but  it  cannot  be  a  minute,  be- 
fore he  sees  that  which  he  seeks — a  white,  implor- 
ing face,  a  blue  dress,  a  floating  wealth  of  yellow 
hair.  In  her  fall,  Nellie  has  been  caught  in  the 
forked  trunk  of  a  leaning  tree  ;  and,  knowing  that 
it  is  her  only  hope,  she  clings  there,  with  both 
arms  tightly  twined  around  the  rough  bark  and 
her  piteous  eyes  turned  upward.  The  peril  of  her 
situation  is  evident  at  a  glance  ;  but  even  this  to 
the  young  man  is  a  great  relief.  The  horrible, 
sickening  sense  of  despaii*  is  lifted  from  him. 
There  is  something  to  do. 

lie  proceeds  at  once  to  do  it.  It  is  no  easy 
task  to  descend  to  where  the  child  has  lodged,  but 
he  goes  down  with  what  care  he  may  ;  and  after 
securing  himself  against  the  danger  of  slipping  by 
bracing  one  foot  against  a  small  sapling  that  leans 


52  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

out  from  the  face  of  the  precipice,  he  puts  his  arm 
around  Nellie  and  bids  her  cling  to  him  instead 
of  to  the  tree.  She  needs  no  second  bidding  to  do 
this,  but  flings  her  arms  with  almost  convulsive 
force  about  his  neck.  So  weighted,  it  is  very  dif- 
ficult to  climb  up  again  ;  but,  step  by  step,  hand 
over  hand,  he  mounts  slowly,  until  his  head  is  on 
a  level  with  a  bank.  Then  there  comes  a  terrible 
wrench  of  his  foot,  which  has  caught  in  the  root 
of  a  tree — a  wrench  so  sharp  that  it  wrings  from 
him  a  groan  of  agony,  and  might  cause  him  to  fall 
backward  if  it  were  not  that  he  has  presence  of 
mind  enough  to  seize  the  stem  of  a  young  pine 
growing  near. 

"  Nellie,"  he  says,  "  do  you  think  you  could 
climb  the  rest  of  the  way  by  yourself,  and  then  go 
very  carefully  to  where  the  others  are,  and  ask 
George  and  Mr.  Martin  to  come  here  and  lend  me 
a  helping  hand  ?  " 

Before  Nellie  can  answer,  a  voice,  to  his  infi- 
nite amazement,  speaks  just  above  him.  "  Give 
Nellie  to  me,  Mr.  Charlton.     I  can  take  her." 

He  throws  back  his  head  and  looks  up.  On 
the  verge  of  the  precipice  Flora  kneels,  her  face 
marble-pale,  her  blue  eyes  shining  T\dth  steady 
lustre.  As  their  glances  meet,  she  leans  doT\Ti 
and  extends  her  arms.  "  Give  Nellie  to  me  !  " 
she  repeats. 

He  has  no  alternative  but  to  obey.  In  his  pre- 
carious position,  it  is  certainly  imperative  that  he 


"IN  NATURE'S  EYES."  53 

should  be  rid  of  Nellie  in  some  manner.  "  Be 
careful !  "  he  says,  as  he  lifts  her  ;  "  you  may  lose 
your  balance." 

"  There  is  no  danger,"  she  answers  quietly — 
and  indeed  there  seems  to  be  none.  Even  in  the 
midst  of  his  pain,  Charlton  wonders  at  her  cool- 
ness and  self-possession.  She  steadies  herself  ad- 
mirably while  she  draws  Nellie  to  her.  It  is  only 
when  the  child  is  safely  by  her  side  that  her  self- 
control  gives  way,  and  she  passionately  kisses  her. 
This  is  only  for  a  moment,  however.  Then  she 
places  Nellie  back  against  the  rock,  and,  returning, 
kneels  do^vn  again. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Charlton,"  she  says,  "  let  me  help 
you.     You  have  hurt  yourself,  have  you  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  twisted  my  ankle,  I  think,"  he  an- 
swers. "  It  hurts  very  much.  But  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  you  to  help  me.     George  or  Mr.  Martin — " 

"  George  and  Mr.  Martin  have  both  gone  to 
sec  about  the  wagonette,"  she  interrupts.  "  I  can- 
not leave  you  here  while  I  go  or  send  after  them. 
You  must  let  me  help  you.  I  am  strong — you 
don't  know  how  strong  !  See,  here  is  a  stick  I 
was  using  as  an  alpenstock.  If  you  will  take  it, 
and  give  me  your  hand,  I  am  sure  I  can  assist  you. 
Pray  give  me  your  hand  !  " 

He  cannot  refuse,  though  he  has  little  idea  that 
she  will  be  able  to  assist  him.  But  who  can  esti- 
mate the  strength  which  a  brave  spirit  can  put 
into  a  slender  frame?     Fragile  as  she  looks.  Flora 


54  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

has  the  firm  muscles  of  perfect  health,  together 
with  the  skill  of  a  mountaineer ;  and  so,  to  his 
own  astonishment,  Charlton  finds  himself  trusting 
more  and  more  to  the  resolute  young  hand,  until 
it  draws  him  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  he 
feels  that  he  is  safe.  He  gives  another  wrench  to 
his  foot  in  his  final  spring,  however,  and  the  pain 
mists  all  things  before  him.  As  he  sinks  down, 
he  hears,  as  in  a  dream,  the  kind  voice  saying  : 

"I  am  sure  you  are  suffering  a  great  deal. 
Shall  I  bring  you  some  water  ?  " 


a 


CHAPTER  V. 

LINGER,    O    GENTLE    TIME  !" 


When  Charlton  comes  to  himself  again — for 
he  loses  all  knowledge  of  things  around  for  a 
brief  space — he  is  lying  on  the  ground,  while  a 
tender  hand  bathes  his  face  with  cold  water.  He 
opens  his  eyes,  and  sees  first  the  blue  sky  far 
above,  and  then  something  else  which  is  as  blue — 
to  wit,  a  pair  of  human  orbs  regarding  him. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  ?  "  Flora  asks.  "  I  fear 
you  are  in  great  pain." 

Charlton's  first  sensation  is  one  of  intense 
annoyance.  What  has  he  done  ?  Can  it  be 
possible  that  he  has  fainted,  like  a  sick  child, 
from  the  mere  pain  of  a  twisted  foot  ?     Flora 


"  LINGER,  0  GENTLE   TIME  !  "  55 

sees  the  color  spring  to  his  pale  face,  but  she  does 
not  understand  the  cause  of  it.  She  takes  away 
her  hand,  and  as  he  rises  to  a  sitting  posture,  his 
first  words  are  significant  of  his  state  of  feeling. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  !  "  he  says.  "  What 
possessed  me  to  make  such  a  scene  over  such  a 
mere  trifle,  I  cannot  tell !  Pray  forgive  me,  Miss 
Tyn-ell." 

"  Forgive  you  !  "  repeats  Flora.  "  What 
have  you  done  that  I  need  to  forgive  ?  Are  you 
siu'e  you  feel  better  ?  You  cannot  tell  how 
shocked  I  was  when  I  saw  you  lean  back  and 
turn  so  white  !  I  think  you  must  have  lost  con- 
sciousness for  a  minute." 

"I  —  suppose  I  did,"  says  Charlton.  "  I 
wrenched  my  foot  again  as  I  sprang  over  the 
bank,  and  the  pain  was  really  very  intense. 
Your  application  of  cold  water  did  me  a  great 
deal  of  good.  But  pray  tell  me  how  you  chanced 
to  be  on  the  bank  just  when  you  were  most 
needed  ?  I  am  not,  as  a  rule,  inclined  to  poeti- 
cal metaphor ;  but  I  could  have  likened  you 
to  an  angel  of  rescue  when  I  glanced  up  and 
saw  you." 

"  I  had  been  there  all  the  time,"  she  replies, 
quietly.  "  But  I  was  afraid  to  speak  for  fear  of 
startling  you." 

"  All  the  time  !     You  mean—?  " 

"  I  mean  ever  since  you  went  down.  No  one 
could  tell  me  where  Nellie  was,  and  I  did  not 


56  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

know  that  she  had  attached  herself  to  you,  so  I 
came  in  search  of  her.  I  was  in  sight  when  you 
sprang  down  the  rock,  and  I  knew  from  your 
manner  that  something  was  the  matter,  but  I 
could  not  make  you  hear.  I  hurried  on  as  fast  as 
I  could,  and  reached  the  top  of  the  bank  just 
when  you  were  releasing  Nellie.  I  would  not 
have  spoken  for  anything — even  if  you  could 
have  heard  me.  I  scarcely  dared  to  breathe  in 
my  suspense.  Oh,  Mr.  Charlton,  don't  think  me 
ungrateful  because  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank 
you — " 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  TjTrell,"  interrupts  Charl- 
ton, "  but  you  must  not  mention  such  a  word. 
Instead  of  thanking,  you  ought  to  blame  me.  It 
was  all  my  fault.  I  was  scribbling  in  my  note- 
book and  neglecting  the  child — else  she  would 
not  have  fallen.     Is  not  that  true,  Nellie  ?  " 

But  Nellie  is  a  conscientious  young  person, 
and  she  cannot  indorse  this.  She  looks  up  at  her 
sister  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  It  was  my  fault, 
Floy,"  she  says  ;  "  Mr.  Charlton  was  ^Titing,  and 
I — I  thought  I  could  get  down  myself.  Then 
my  foot  slipped,  and  oh  !  I  thought  I  was  gone. 
All  my  ferns  went,  and  I  fell  down  the  bank  till 
the  tree  stopped  me." 

"  Never  mind,"  says  Charlton,  cheerily.  "  It 
is  all  right  now — at  least  it  ought  to  be.  But 
what  is  to  be  done  with  this  foot  of  mine  is  a 
serious  question.     Miss  Tyrrell,  can  you  suggest 


"LINGER,  O   GENTLE   TIME!"  57 

anything  ?  I  fear  I  can  never  climb  over  these 
rocks." 

"  Xot  even  with  the  alpenstock  and  my  arm  ?  " 
asks  Flora.  "  Or  had  I  better  go  and  send  for 
Mr.  Martin  and  George  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  think  I  will  try  the 
alpenstock  and  your  arm,"  says  Charlton.  "  If  I 
can  once  get  on  my  feet,  no  doubt  it  will  be  easy 
enough  to  hobble  along." 

Flora  hands  him  the  stick,  and  then  assists 
him.  He  gains  his  feet — or  rather,  to  speak  with 
entire  correctness,  he  gains  one  foot,  and  stands 
leaning  on  that  and  the  stick  with  an  almost  ludi- 
crous expression  of  mingled  pain  and  uncertainty 
on  his  face. 

"  Now  take  my  arm,"  says  Flora.  "  Oh,  you 
must ;  it  is  impossible  that  you  can  walk  by  yom*- 
self.  And  you  know  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
climbing  to  be  done.  Nellie,  keep  close  to  me. 
One  accident  should  be  enough  for  you." 

It  boots  not  to  tell  in  what  slow  and  toilsome 
fashion  these  three  make  their  way  back  to  the 
neighborhood  of  the  upper  fall.  "  The  sun's 
bright  lances"  have  long  since  left  the  cloistral 
greenness  around,  but  they  pause  now  and  then 
to  admire  the  splendor  and  tumult  of  the  flashing 
waters.  It  is  also  necessary  for  Charlton  to  rest, 
since  every  movement  of  his  foot  causes  him  keen 
suffering.  All  journeys  end  after  a  time,  how- 
ever, and  so  does  this  one.     Near  the  mill  they 


58  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

are  met  by  Minnie  and  Oscar,  and  Flora  dis- 
patclies  the  latter  at  once  to  have  the  wagonette 
brought  as  near  as  possible.  "  You  must  go  home 
in  that,"  she  says  to  Charlton. 

He  cannot  deny  that  this  is  necessary,  and 
does  not  like  to  acknowledge  how  much  he  feels 
averse  to  it.  "  I  suppose  it  will  be  best,"  he  says, 
"  but  I  have  been  counting  on  a  very  pleasant  ride 
back  with  you." 

"  You  mean  that  you  prefer  riding  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  I  don't  care  whether  I  ride  or  drive,  so  far 
as  the  mere  question  of  locomotion  is  concerned," 
he  replies.    "  What  I  cared  for  was  your  society." 

She  looks  honestly  surj)rised,  but  neither  blush- 
es nor  laughs.  "  If  you  are  in  earnest,"  she  says, 
"  such  a  moderate  desire  can  be  easily  gratified. 
I  will  go  in  the  wagonette  too.  Minnie  will  like 
to  ride,  I  am  sure." 

"  Miss  Tyrrell,  you  are  too  good  !  I  am  really 
ashamed  of  my  selfishness,"  Charlton  begins,  for 
he  did  not  anticipate  this. 

But  she  stops  him.  "  I  like  driving  very  well," 
she  says.  "If  you  want  me  with  you,  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  go." 

"  What  a  girl !  "  thinks  Charlton.  "  One  might 
suppose  that  she  or  I,  or  both  of  us,  were  octo- 
genarians !  Sunderland  was  right.  There  is  no 
material  for  a  coquette  here.  Some  men  think 
that  spice  necessary  to  a  woman's  charm.  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  do." 


"LINGER,  0   GENTLE   TIME!"  59 

Miss  Tyrrell  is  as  good  as  her  word.  She  re- 
signs her  horse  to  Minnie,  who  gladly  mounts  him. 
George  takes  Charlton's  horse,  and  so  they  turn 
their  faces  homeward.  The  party  in  the  wagon- 
ette find  the  drive  delightful.  Soft  fresh  winds, 
laden  with  balm,  come  to  them  from  remote  dis- 
tance— winds  which  feel  as  if  they  might  waft 
away  all  care  and  trouble  from  human  hearts. 
Summer's  enchanted  dust  is  spread  over  the  land  ; 
there  are  low-lying  streaks  of  light  in  the  golden 
west ;  the  mountains  are  wrapped  in  violet  haze  ; 
the  great  bending  sky  is  infinitely  pure  and  ten- 
der ;  trees  arch  overhead,  unseen  water  rushes  by. 
When  they  reach  the  valley  the  fields  spread  out 
far  and  faint,  and  all  the  sweet  growing  things  on 
the  banks  of  the  river  exhale  theii*  perfume  on  the 
evening  atmosphere. 

Charlton  feels  as  if  this  might  go  on  forever. 
The  closing  twilight,  the  darkening  landscape,  the 
melody  of  flowing  water — all  seem  to  him  charged 
with  a  meaning  and  a  sentiment  which  a  poet 
might  put  into  language,  but  a  poet  alone.  He  is 
inclined  to  be  silent,  and  Flora,  feeling  his  mood, 
says  little.  Mr.  Martin  and  Xellie  chatter  in  front, 
but  these  two  have  the  back  seat  and  the  lovely 
quiet  of  Nature  to  themselves.  One,  at  least,  is 
sorry  when  they  l)egin  to  near  home,  and  the 
lights  from  the  house  gleam  out  with  cheerful 
efl;ect  on  the  twilight.    He  turns  to  his  companion  : 

"  Will  you  let  me  thank  you  for  the  pleasure 


60  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

of  this  afternoon  ?  "  lie  says.  "  It  has  been  great- 
er than  you,  I  fancy,  can  imagine.  In  a  measure, 
that  which  is  familiar  loses  its  charm  to  us." 

"  Not  to  me,"  says  Flora.  "  I  believe  I  told 
you  once  before  that  I  admire  this  country  all  the 
more  for  knowing  it  so  well.  It  is  an  old  friend  ; 
and  who  loves  an  old  friend  less  for  knowing  every 
line  in  his  face  ?  " 

"  Every  one  is  not  so  loyal  as  yourself,"  says 
Charlton,  smiling  at  the  soft  pathos  of  her  tone. 
"  Some  people  tire  of  their  old  friends.  After  all, 
it  is  not  well  to  be  too  constant." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  she  says.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  is  a  very  lowering  philosophy." 

"  What  would  you  have  ? "  asks  Charlton. 
"The  world  is  lowering.  But  this  is  not  the 
world — this  is  Arcadia,"  he  goes  on,  laughing. 
"I  forgot  for  a  moment  where  I  was.  But  I 
shall  never  forget  the  Falls  of  Conestee,"  he  adds, 
in  another  tone. 

"  I  fear  your  foot  will  remind  you  of  them  for 
some  time,"  she  says. 

She  proves  altogether  right.  Mr.  Charlton's 
foot  has  been  very  badly  sprained,  and  makes  an 
invalid  of  him  for  several  days.  Flora  prescribes 
arnica  for  the  injury,  but  Colonel  Tyrrell  insists 
that  the  best  treatment  is  unlimited  use  of  cold 
water  ;  and  since  Charlton  yields  his  foot  up  for 
experiments  as  cheerfully  as  if  he  had  no  personal 
interest  in  its  welfare,  the  result  is  a  mixture  of 


"LINGER,  0   GENTLE   TIME!"  61 

remedies.  Part  of  the  time  the  suffering  member 
is  bandaged  with  arnica  ;  at  other  times  it  is 
bared  and  extended  over  a  hirge  tub,  while  Colo- 
nel Tyrrell  pours  a  stream  of  cold  water  upon  it 
from  a  heic^ht  of  four  or  five  feet. 

There  are  to  Charlton,  however,  many  com- 
pensations for  his  enforced  invalidism  and  the 
hytiropathic  treatment  which  it  involves.  He  is 
not  a  man  who  is  easily  pleased  by  women  ;  but 
day  by  day  he  is  more  attracted  by  Flora,  and 
he  seizes  every  opportunity  to  study  her  charac- 
ter, to  elicit  her  opinions,  to  draw  out  the  expres- 
sion of  her  tastes.  They  are  pleasant  days  to 
him.  His  work,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  wholly 
neglected.  He  does  not  even  write  any  letters, 
and  is  absolutely  indifferent  whether  or  not  he 
receives  anv.  Minnie,  with  the  acuteness  of  her 
years,  remarks  this. 

"  Mr.  Charlton  is  the  only  person  who  takes 
no  interest  in  the  mail,"  she  says  one  day  while 
that  important  budget  is  being  distributed. 

Mr.  Charlton,  who  is  lying  back  in  a  deep 
chair,  with  his  injured  foot  extended  over  an  ot- 
toman, looks  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"  Allow  me  to  observe,  mademoiselle,"  he  says, 
"  that  you  would  find  nothing  remarkable  in  that 
fact  if  you  could  only  put  yourself  in  the  position 
of  a  man  to  whom  the  mail  cannot  possibly  bring 
anything  save  annoyance." 


G2  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

Minnie's  eyes  expand.  "  Can  it  bring  notliing 
else  to  you  ?  "  she  asks,  point-blank. 

"  Not  anything  else  at  all.  You  read  Tenny- 
son, I  know.  Do  you  suppose  the  lotos-eaters 
would  have  cared  much  for  the  arrival  of  let- 
ters ?    I  am  a  lotos-eater  just  now." 

"  Mr.  Charlton,  here  are  some  letters  for  you  !  " 
cries  Nellie,  quitting  her  father's  side  and  darting 
forward. 

"  Evil  fortune  has  found  me  out ! "  says  Charl- 
ton, with  a  heart-felt  sigh.  Still  it  is  impossible 
to  refrain  from  glancing  at  the  missives  placed  in 
his  unwilling  hand.  One  bears  the  printed  ad- 
dress of  a  publishing-house,  another  comes  from 
the  office  of  the  Telegraph,  a  third  from  the  edi- 
tor of  a  magazine  to  which  he  is  usually  a  con- 
stant contributor  ;  on  the  fourth  he  recognizes, 
with  something  almost  akin  to  dismay,  the  writ- 
ing of  Sunderland.  Minnie  recognizes  it,  too, 
and  impetuously  announces  the  fact. 

"  Why,  that  is  from  Harry  !  "  she  says— when, 
catching  her  sister's  eye  with  reproof  in  it,  she 
stops  and  blushes. 

"  I  believe  it  is,"  responds  Charlton.  Then  he 
pockets  all  four  of  the  letters  and  quietly  unfolds 
a  newspaper  which  has  also  come  to  him. 

He  does  not  read  these  epistles — none  of 
which  are  particularly  agreeable — until  he  is 
alone.  The  business  letters  make  it  imperative 
for  him  to  go  to  work,  and  he  sighs  as  he  glances 


"LINGER,  0   GENTLE   TIME!"  G3 

over  them.      Sunderland's   letter   he  opens   last, 
and  finds  that  this  is  what  it  says  : 

"  MoNTTvEAL,  August  \Oth. 

"  My  Dear  Charlton  :  AVhat,  in  the  name  of 
all  that  is  remarkable,  has  come  over  you  ?  What 
spell  of  silence  has  taken  possession  of  you  ?  I 
should  be  inclined  to  think  that  you  had  failed  to 
reach  Arcadia  after  all,  if  it  were  not  that  a  let- 
ter from  Flora  lies  before  me,  in  which  she  men- 
tions your  arrival,  and  says,  with  a  moderation  I 
am  sure  you  will  appreciate,  that  you  *  promise  to 
be  a  very  agreeable  person.'  I  entertain  no  doubt 
but  that  you  have  by  this  time  fulfilled  that 
promise  to  her  entire  satisfaction,  and  are  there- 
fore able  to  throw  some  light  on  the  problem 
which  is  puzzling  me  more  than  ever  just  now, 
and  which  I  trusted  you  would  elucidate. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  Paper  and  ink  are 
unsafe  things  to  trust ;  accidents  sometimes  oc- 
cur in  the  best-regulated  correspondence,  and 
therefore  prudence  becomes  a  man,  though  he 
were  a  second  Damon  T\T.'iting  to  another  Pythias. 
But  do  you,  or  do  you  not,  mean  to  help  me  ?  I 
am  in  a  position  at  present  which  it  will  not  be 
possible  for  me  to  maintain  much  longer.  You 
understand,  of  course,  how  one  is  carried  on  by 
the  force  of  circumstances — sometimes  farther 
than  one  "vsdshes  or  intends  to  go.  As  a  man  of 
honor,  I  must  do  one  of  two  things — declare  my- 


64  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

self,  or  leave  tlie  party  with  wliich  I  am  traveling. 
Now,  as  I  told  you  before,  I  do  not  wish  to  de- 
clare myself  as  much  as  my  feelings  are  involved, 
until  I  am  sure  that  no  one  else  possesses,  or  im- 
agines herself  to  possess,  any  claim  upon  me.  I 
am  writing  more  plainly  than  I  like,  but  I  must 
make  things  clear  to  you.  Tell  me  what  you 
think,  and  write  at  once  to  Quebec.  We  go  there 
in  a  few  days,  and  shall  probably  remain  several 
weeks.  My  line  of  conduct  depends  altogether 
on  what  you  say,  for  I  trust  implicitly  to  your 
powers  of  observation. 

"  How  do  you  like  Transylvania  ?  Fine  place, 
isn't  it  ?  I  have  never  seen  scenery  that  pleased 
me  as  well  anywhere  else.  Somehow  there's  a 
softness  and  a  boldness  together,  that — well,  I  am 
not  trained  to  analyze  feelings,  so  I  leave  you  to 
define  exactly  what  sentiments  are  inspired  by  the 
combination.  Have  you  brought  down  a  deer 
yet  ?  Flora  ought  to  take  you  to  the  Conestee. 
I  wonder  if  she  remembers  one  day  when  she  and 
I  were  there.  By  Jove  !  when  I  think  of  these 
things,  I  hardly  know  what  to  do.  Write,  Charl- 
ton, for  Heaven's  sake,  and  tell  me  something.  I 
could  sooner  blow  out  my  brains  than  return  my 
uncle's  kindness  by  acting  shabbily  to  Flora. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  writing  of  anything  else. 
You  know  all  these  places  better  than  I  do.  Burn 
this  letter,  and  answer  it  without  delay. 

"  Yours,  H.  S." 


"LIXGEK,  0   GENTLE   TIME!"  65 

Charlton  proceeds  at  once  to  obey  the  direc- 
tion contained  in  tlie  latter  part  of  this  missive. 
He  twists  it  up  meditatively,  strikes  a  match,  sets 
it  on  fire,  and  throws  it  on  the  hearth,  watchins: 
the  flames  consume  it  and  leave  only  a  little  pile 
of  white  feathery  ashes.  "  I'll  take  care  that  no 
accidents  occur  here  !  "  he  says,  speaking  aloud. 
"  Consummate  young  puppy  !  "  he  adds,  after  a 
moment.  "  And  yet  there's  a  train  of  chivalry  in 
his  character  that  almost  redeems  the  puppyism. 
There  are  not  many  men  who  would  trouble 
themselves  so  much  about  a  scruple  of  honor,  and 
the  aching  of  a  girl's  heart  more  or  less.  But 
then  she  is  no  ordinary  girl,"  he  goes  on,  limping 
to  his  writing-table  and  sitting  down.  "  Even 
Sunderland  feels  that,  I  suppose.  I  fear — I  great- 
ly fear  that  she  cares  for  him  !  She  is  like  her 
native  hills — steadfast,  beautiful,  strong,  and  yet 
tender.  And  Zam  appointed  to  sound  the  depths 
of  that  fine,  reticent  nature  !  The  thing  is  absurd 
and  impossible.  Yet,  if  I  do  not  at  least  attempt 
to  do  so,  what  will  be  the  result?  Sunderland 
will  marry  that  girl  after  whom  he  is  dangling, 
au<I  this  proud,  gentle  creature  may  suffer  as  such 
women  only  know  how  to  suffer.  A  malediction 
on  all  lovers  and  love  affairs  !  When  one  has 
none  on  one's  own  account,  it  seems  that  fate 
malignantly  appoints  one's  neighbors  to  trouble 
one  !  I  will  do  what  I  can.  And  now  it  is  a 
fixed  fact  that  I  must  go  to  work.  My  days  of 
5 


66  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

idleness  are  over.  That  essay  must  be  finished 
by  to-morrow  evening,  if  I  have  to  sit  up  all  night 
to  do  it." 


CHAPTER  YI. 

"  THE   MOOD    OF   WOMAN   WHO    CATi   TELL  ? " 

N^otwithsta:^di]S'G  the  unfinished  condition 
of  that  essay  on  social  ethics,  which  is  already 
overdue  in  the  pages  of  the  magazine  to  which 
Mr.  Charlton  lends  the  force  of  his  genius,  he  is 
to  be  seen,  as  the  afternoon  gradually  declines 
into  evening,  limping  down  the  lawn  by  Flora's 
side. 

From  his  window,  he  saw  Colonel  Tyrrell 
drive  off  with  Minnie  and  Nellie,  George  canter 
aAvay  with  his  sworn  comrade  Tom  Fanshaw, 
and  Mr.  Martin,  accompanied  by  Oscar,  go  out 
among  the  hills,  on  fishing  and  botany  plainly  in- 
tent. Finally,  when  the  sun  slopes  low  toward 
the  western  mountains,  the  much-erased  sheets  of 
the  manuscript  are  pushed  aside,  and  the  essayist 
takes  his  way  down  to  the  lower  regions  of  the 
house.  He  finds  Flora  without  difliculty,  and 
suggests  a  walk. 

"I  am  the  good  boy  who  deserves  a  sugar- 
plum," he  says,  as  she  hesitates.  "You  don't 
know  how  hard  I  have  been  working  during  all 


"THE   MOOD   OF   WOMAN  WHO   CAN  TELL?"  67 

this  long,  warm  afternoon.     Now  it  is  nearly  seven 
o'clock,  and  I  feel  that  I  have  earned  a  brief  rest." 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  have,"  she  says.  "  13ut 
do  you  think  you  ought  to  walk  ?  Papa  spoke  of 
asking  you  to  drive  with  him,  but  he  was  obliged 
to  go  to  Brevard  on  business,  and  Minnie  wanted 
to  do  some  shopping." 

"  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  decline  going 
with  him  if  he  had  asked  me.  I  have  work  that 
I  must  finish  at  once.  But  you  know  the  twilight 
is  'labors  brief  armistice,'  and  will  you  not  go 
with  me  down  to  the  river  to  enjoy  it  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  cannot  refuse,"  she  says.  And 
so  it  is  they  take  their  way  down  the  hill — Charl- 
ton with  the  stick  which  serves  him  as  a  partial 
crutch.  Flora  with  her  hat  hanging  on  her  arm. 
As  they  cross  the  lawn  their  shadows  stretch 
gigantically  long  behind  them  ;  but  Vhen  they 
reach  the  river  bank,  the  region  of  sunlight  is  all 
above.  Here  is  a  green.  Undine  light,  a  grassy 
bank,  tangled  vines,  emerald-tinted  water  sweep- 
ing softly  by  under  the  drooping  boughs  of  trees. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  stop  here  ?  " 
asks  Flora.  "  I  am  afraid  you  ought  not  to  walk 
anv  farther." 

Charlton  assenting,  they  sit  down  on  the  slop- 
ing bank.  There  are  cushions  of  moss  around  the 
great  spreading  roots  of  the  trees,  and  Flora  be- 
gins to  fill  her  hat  with  them.  "  They  are  pretty 
for  the  hanging   baskets,"  she   says.      There   is 


68  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

much  grace,  together  with  thorough  unconscious- 
ness, in  her  attitude.  An  artist,  coming  upon  the 
little  scene,  might  throw  a  flowering  spray  over 
her  delicate  head,  and  draw  her  for  her  fair  Ro- 
man namesake,  the  sweet  goddess  of  flowers  and 
spring.  So  her  companion  thinks,  watching  her 
and  wondering  how  he  shall  introduce  the  subject 
uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  Chance  befriends 
him — Flora  herself  begins  to  speak  of  Sunderland. 

"Mosses  always  remind  me  of  Harry,"  she 
says.  "  He  knew  that  I  was  fond  of  them,  and 
he  always  brought  me  beautiful  varieties  from  the 
mountains.  He  never  went  hunting  that  he  did 
not  come  back  laden  with  them." 

"  If  you  were  fond  of  mosses,  he  must  have 
been  very  fond  of  you,"  says  Charlton,  with  in- 
tent to  surprise,  if  possible,  some  emotion  in  her 
face  or  voice.  "  "When  I  first  knew  him  he  talked 
of  you  continually.  You  have  no  idea  how  well 
I  was  acquainted  with  you  before  I  ever  saw  you." 

"  Were  you  ?  "  she  says,  simply.  "  It  was  good 
of  Harry  to  find  time  to  speak  of  me  in  the  whirl 
of  his  new  life.  I  fancy,  however,  that  must  have 
been  when  he  first  entered  upon  it." 

Charlton  cannot  deny  this.  "  Of  course  other 
interests  claimed  his  attention  after  a  while,"  he 
remarks.  *'  But  a  man  may  be  careless  and  yet 
loyal.  One  cannot  always  talk  even  of  that  which 
lies  next  his  heart." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that  Harry  is  always  loyal," 


"THE   MOOD   OF  WOMAN  WHO   aVN  TELL?"  69 

says  Flora,  Avith  a  very  charming  air  of  pride.  "  I 
do  not  fear  that  he  will  forget  us  ;  we  formed  too 
close  and  intimate  a  part  of  his  life  for  many  years 
for  such  a  thing  as  that  to  be.  But  we  are  not 
necessary  to  him  any  longer.  He  has  passed  away 
from  us  to  another  life  and  other  interests.  I 
realize  that  clearly  ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  is 
best  so." 

The  quiet  voice  utters  these  words  without  a 
single  tremor,  the  candid  eyes  meet  Charlton's 
gaze  with  a  composure  which  he  cannot  believe 
to  be  feigned.  He  confesses  to  himself  that  he  is 
puzzled.  If  she  cares  for  her  cousin  as  he  has 
imagined  her  to  do,  her  powers  of  dissimulation 
are  marvelous  for  one  of  her  years. 

"  Why  should  you  think  so  ?  "  he  asks,  in  reply 
to  her  last  words.  "May  not  his  best  happiness 
lie  here  ?  I  am  not  sure  that  the  great  maelstrom 
of  the  world  improves  such  a  nature  as  his — a  na- 
ture warm  in  its  affections,  true  in  its  instincts, 
yet  easily  swayed  by  outside  influences." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  says  ;  "  but  you 
see  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  that  now.  Harry  will 
never  again  be  content  here.  How  do  I  know  it  ? 
Oh,  by  everything — by  instinct,  by  the  tone  of 
his  letters,  by  my  knowledge  of  his  character 
He  may  be  very  much  attached  to  us  still — I  feel 
no  doubt  of  that — ^but  a  gulf  of  change  lies  be- 
tween our  life  and  his.  And  I  think  that  such  a 
gulf  is  harder  to  span  than   any  other.     People 


70  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

who  begin  by  disliking  each  other  may  learn  to 
love  ;  natures  may  alter  and  characters  assimilate  ; 
but  when  a  whole  world  of  change  lies  between — 
of  joys,  sorrows,  tastes,  and  pursuits — those  things 
divide  hopelessly  all  who  are  not  bound  together 
by  close  and  enduring  ties." 

"  And  do  you  not  consider  Sunderland  bound 
to  you  by  any  such  tie  ?  "  asks  Charlton — almost 
forgetting  how  strange  the  question  is  in  his  anx- 
iety to  hear  it  answered. 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  answers,  calmly.  "  How 
could  he  be?" 

Surely  this  is  frankness  that  might  satisfy  any 
man  ;  but  Charlton  is  not  satisfied  even  yet. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  am  presumptuous,"  he  says, 
"  but  I  have  understood — that  is,  I  have  fancied 
— that  you  were,  in  a  manner,  engaged  -to  him." 

"  What  have  you  seen  or  heard  to  make  you 
fancy  such  a  thing  ?  "  she  asks.  "  I  am  sure  that 
Harry  did  not  tell  you  so." 

"  No — not  exactly,"  replies  Charlton,  conscious 
that  he  has  gone  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  venture ; 
"but  I  imagined  something  of  the  kind." 

"You  made  a  great  mistake,  then,"  she  says, 
"  and  I  am  glad  that  you  have  mentioned  it,  in 
order  that  I  may  set  you  right — for  Harry's  sake. 
Do  you  think  he  would  stay  where  he  is,  if  such 
a  thing  were  so  ?  But  it  is  not  so.  Pray  under- 
stand that.  We  are,  and  always  have  been,  like 
brother  and  sister — no  more  than  that.     There  is 


"THE   MOOD   OF  WOMAN   WHO   CAN  TELL?"   71 

no  engagement,  nor  shadow  of  engagement,  be- 
tween us." 

"  So  far  so  good,"  thinks  Charlton  to  himself  ; 
Sunderland  is  evidently  not  bound  in  honor — at 
least  not  in  any  tangible  manner.  But  the  other 
and  subtiler  question  is  yet  unanswered.  Is  the 
heart  of  this  frank,  tender  maiden  in  his  posses- 
sion, or  is  it  not  ?  How  to  arrive  at  the  solution 
of  this  enigma  puzzles  our  acute  novelist.  While 
he  is  considering  it.  Flora  speaks  again  : 

"  Now  that  this  point  is  made  clear,  Mr.  Charl- 
ton, I  hope  you  will  not  hesitate  to  talk  to  me  of 
Harry  more  freely  than  you  have  done  heretofore. 
I  have  felt  that  there  was  a  reserve  and  constraint 
in  all  that  you  said  of  him,  but  I  did  not  know 
how  to  end  it.  Fortunately  it  has  ended  itself. 
You  know  that  I  am  only  his  sister,  and  that  I 
feel  a  sister's  interest  in  everything  concerning 
him." 

^'Why  should  you  think  that  I  have  shown 
any  reserve  or  constraint  in  speaking  of  him  ? " 
asks  Charlton. 

*' Because,"  she  answers,  "Harry  is  in  love, 
and  you  have  said  nothing  to  me  about  it.  AVhom 
is  he  in  love  with  ? — Miss  Preston  ?  " 

"You  cannot  expect  me  to  know,"  answers 
Charlton,  more  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  say  than 
he  ever  remembers  to  have  been  in  his  life  be- 
fore, but  with  the  certainty  growing  strong'er  that 
Sunderland's   vanity  has   misled   him,   and   that 


72  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

this  girl  indeed  tliinks  of  him  as  a  brother,  and 
no  more. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do  ! "  she  says.  "  Harry's  let- 
ters to  me  of  late  have  been  singularly  unsatisfac- 
tory. You  will  tell  me  all  about  him,  however, 
will  )^ou  not  ?  And  who  is  the  lady  ?  There  al- 
ways was  '  a  lady  in  the  case '  with  Harry  from 
early  boyhood.  He  was  always  one  of  the  most 
suscej)tible  of  human  beings.  I  suppose  people 
of  his  temperament  always  are." 

"  While  people  of  yours  are  always  constant," 
says  Charlton,  regarding  her  curiously. 

A  flush  comes  to  her  cheeks.  "Never  mind 
what  I  am,"  she  replies.  "IN'o  doubt  you  were 
right  the  other  day  when  you  said  this  was  a 
world  of  change,  and  he  who  is  wise  changes  with 
it.  If  I  am  not  wise  in  that  manner,  I  shall  prob- 
ably suffer  for  my  folly,  sooner  or  later.  Yet " — 
she  pauses  suddenly,  and  her  eyes  turn  to  where 
the  beautiful  masses  of  sunset  clouds  are  marshal- 
ing in  great  pageant — "it  seems  to  me  that  I 
would  rather  suffer  and  be  faithful,  than  win 
peace  by  fickleness." 

"  Don't  say  that  ! "  exclaims  Charlton,  with 
an  earnestness  which  surprises  himself.  "You 
don't  know  how  necessary  it  is  in  tliis  world  to 
forget.  Characters  change,  as  you  said  a  moment 
ago,  and  feelings  change  with  them.  There  is 
nothing,  believe  me,  for  which  we  should  be  more 
grateful  than  that  they  do." 


"THE  MOOD   OF  WOMAN  WHO   C.VN   TELL?"  73 

She  does  not  answer.  He  cannot  tell  whether 
or  not  she  heeds  him.  The  large  full  eyes,  blue 
as  woodland  violets,  still  rest  on  the  rose  and 
aquamarine  splendor  of  the  western  sky.  As 
Charlton's  gaze  folloAVS  hers,  he  catches  a  familiar 
gleam  shining  with  faint  lustre  out  of  the  bed  of 
glory  which  the  sun  has  left.     There, 

"  Bent  like  Diana's  bow  and  silver  bright, 
Half  lost  in  rosy  haze,  a  crescent  hangs." 

He  points  it  out  to  Flora,  and  then  they  are  silent, 
watching  the  sunset  illumination  slowly  fade — 
leaving  only  a  delicate  flush  above  the  line  of  dis- 
tant mountains — and  the  tender  dusk  steal  softly 
over  the  land.  The  river,  bright  with  the  sunset's 
parting  gleam,  murmurs  at  their  feet  ;  the  fresh 
cool  air  is  full  of  frasrrance.  The  sound  of  wheels 
rolling  over  the  bridge  suddenly  breaks  the  still- 
ness. Flora  starts,  gathers  her  mosses,  and  rises. 
"  It  is  growing  late,"  she  says,  "  and  there  is  papa. 
We  must  go." 

"  No  doubt  you  are  right,"  says  CJiarlton  re- 
gretfully ;  "  but  it  seems  a  pity — everything  is  so 
lovely,  and  we  are  so  comfortable  here  !  " 

She  smiles,  standing  slim  and  straight  beside 
him  as  he  still  lies  on  the  grass.  "  It  is  very 
pleasant,  but  pleasant  things  must  end,"  she  says. 
*'  We  will  come  down  here  again,  if  you  like,  and 
you  can  tell  me  all  about  Harry's  love  affair." 

"Upon  my  word.  Miss  Tyrrell,  you  take  too 


74  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

mucli  for  granted.  It  is  a  fault  of  your  sex — did 
you  know  that  ?  Women  have  a  great  habit  of 
leaping  to  conclusions — which  are  sometimes  right, 
and  sometimes  very  wrong." 

"  I  have  not  leaped  to  my  conclusion  ;  I  have 
arrived  at  it  by  slow  degrees,  and  I  defy  you  to 
say  that  I  am  wrong." 

"  I  shall  not  commit  myself,"  he  says,  rising. 
"  Meanwhile  I  am  going  to  Aviite  to  Harry.  Have 
you  any  message  ?  " 

"Yes — my  love,  and  tell  him  to  write  me  an 
account  of  everything.  If  he  does  not,  I  shall 
be  angry  with  him,  and  jealous  of  you  ;  for  Zwas 
formerly  his  confidante." 

"  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  do  not  fill  that 
honorable  but  onerous  position.  It  is  a  matter  of 
mere  accident  that  I  know  anything  whatever 
of  his  affairs.  I  have  no  doubt,  if  he  has  any- 
thing to  tell,  he  will  gladly  unbosom  himself  to 
you — secure  of  the  sympathy  which  he  has  no 
possible  chance  of  obtaining  from  me." 

They  mount  the  hill,  cross  the  lawn,  and  enter 
the  house.  Tea  is  soon  ready,  and  after  this  in- 
formal meal  the  gentlemen,  as  usual,  go  out  on 
the  piazza  to  smoke.  The  windows  of  the  draw- 
ing-room are  open,  and  Flora  sings,  by  her  father's 
request,  some  of  the  sweet  old  Scotch  and  Irish 
ballads  which  are  the  only  songs  she  knows.  It 
has  been  many  a  day  since  Charlton  has  heard  any 
of  these,  and  he  listens  with  pleasure.     Somehow 


"THE   MOOD   OF  WOM^VJ^   WHO   CAX   TELL?''   75 

the  pathos  of  Burns  and  the  grace  of  Moore  suit 
the  idyllic  life  in  which  he  finds  himself.  Then 
Flora's  voice,  though  untrained,  is  singularly  sweet, 
and  she  sings  with  taste  and  feeling.  As  the  clear 
notes  ring  out,  "  There's  not  in  the  wide  world  a 
valley  so  sweet,"  Charlton  feels  that  he  can  echo 
the  sentiment  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

"When  he  retires  to  his  room,  he  draws  a  sheet 
of  paper  to  him,  and  answers  Sunderland's  appeal 
before  proceeding  to  the  manuscrij^t  on  which  he 
will  probably  toil  until  the  early  summer  dawn 
breaks  in  the  purple  east.  His  letter  is  brief — 
containing  only  these  few  lines  : 

"  Throw  yourself  at  Miss  Preston's  feet  as 
soon  as  you  please.  Miss  Tyi-rell  does  not  con- 
sider you  bound  to  her  in  the  least.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  she  cares  for  you  '  as  a  cousin, 
cousinly,'  and  not  a  whit  more.  She  suspects  that 
you  are  engaged  in  some  affair  of  the  heart,  and  de- 
sires me  to  give  you  her  love  and  say  that  she  will 
be  glad  to  have  a  full  account  of  it  from  you.  Do 
not  imagine  that  I  betrayed  you.  She  divined  the 
important  fact  by  the  pure  force  of  feminine  intui- 
tion. I  owe  you  many  thanks  for  the  pleasant  place 
in  which  I  find  myself,  and  for  the  kindness  with 
which  I  am  treated — mainly  because  I  am  distin- 
guished by  your  friendship.  I  will  wi'ite  more  at 
length  soon.  Am  pressed  for  time  now,  and  remain, 
"Yours,         Geoffrey  Charlton." 


76  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"love  was  in  the  next  degree." 

A  WEEK  or  ten  days  elapse.  Then  before 
Colonel  Tyrrell's  door  there  is  a  bustle  such  as 
always  accompanies  setting  forth  on  a  journey. 
The  wagonette  stands  there,  drawn  by  the  fine 
bay  horses  that  are  their  master's  special  pride. 
Pixie  and  Dixie,  two  beautiful  deer-hounds,  are 
bounding  about  as  if  they  knew  that  an  "  outing  " 
was  before  them.  Colonel  Tyrrell's  saddle-horse 
is  held  by  a  servant  near  by.  Nellie,  in  a  state  of 
glee  almost  equal  to  that  of  the  dogs,  hovers  to 
and  fro  on  the  piazza.  Her  little  heart  is  full  to 
overflowing  with  happiness.  She  is  going — shcy 
Nellie — on  a  journey  to  Caesar's  Head  ! 

Presently  the  others  appear  on  the  piazza — 
Colonel  Tyrrell  smoking,  Charlton  ten  degrees 
more  sunburned  than  when  he  reached  Transyl- 
vania. Minnie  follows  them.  Then  Flora  ap- 
pears, shakes  hands  with  Mr.  Martin  and  Oscar, 
who  are  to  be  left  behind,  and  is  assisted  by 
Charlton  into  the  wagonette.  He  is  to  drive,  and 
she  shares  the  front  seat  with  him,  Minnie  and 
Nellie  occupying  the  one  behind.  Colonel  Tyrrell 
mounts  his  horse  ;  a  small  negro  boy  darts  away 
to  open  the  gate  ;  they  roll  gayly  out,  across  the 
bridge  with  the  translucent  water  flowing  under- 


"LOYE  WAS  IX  THE  NEXT   DEGREE."         77 

ncath — water  full  of  lovely  opal  tints — and  into 
the  valley  beyond.  The  air  is  buoyant  with  the 
freshness  of  early  morning,  the  shadows  are  long, 
the  colors  of  the  mountains  are  exquisite. 

As  they  drive  along  the  valley,  the  music  of 
the  river  in  their  ears,  the  glad  morning  light  on 
the  hills,  a  shifting  picture  before  their  eyes  of 
green  and  gold,  swift  motion  and  exquisite  repose, 
cool  shadows  and  glancing  brightness,  with  the 
steadfast  grandeur  of  mountains  in  the  back- 
ground. Flora  feels  that  it  is  like  a  Benedicite. 
Her  face  is  like  one,  Charlton  thinks.  The  sweet 
flickering  color  comes  and  goes  on  her  cheeks,  her 
eyes  are  the  color  of  the  distant  heights  where 
they  lie  faint  and  far  against  the  sky,  her  delicate 
lips  stir  unconsciously  into  soft  smiles. 

Their  road  lies  over  Mill  Hill,  with  the  gi-eat 
panorama  spread  before  them  to  the  farthest  verge 
of  the  horizon,  crest  upon  crest,  peak  behind  peak, 
graceful  lines  blending,  splendid  forms  towering. 
The  symmetrical  point  of  Pisgah  is  a  landmark  as 
it  stands  out  clearly  defined,  and  wearing  its  most 
heavenly  tint  in  the  lucid  atmosphere.  On  they 
go,  mounting  higher  and  yet  higher — green  shade 
arching  over,  misty  depths  of  verdure  far  below, 
waters  dashing,  flowers  shining,  ferns  and  mosses 
in  profusion.  Presently  they  enter  a  pass,  hemmed 
in  by  mighty  hills.  It  is  a  region  of  enchanted 
loneliness,  of  dazzling  lights  and  solemn  shadow. 
Great  heights  tower  above,  overhung  with  mas- 


78  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

sive  rocks,  to  which  veils  of  softest  moss  and  tan- 
gled vines  cling  ;  dark  gorges  lie  below,  full  of 
green,  misty  gloom — gloom  which  no  lance  of  sun- 
light pierces  ;  far  in  the  depths  is  to  be  heard  the 
rush  of  falling  water.  The  way  grows  wilder  and 
steeper.  Looking  up  at  the  great  mountain  which 
dominates  the  pass,  they  see  a  shimmer  of  sun- 
light among  the  twigs  and  stems  and  sprays  of 
foliage,  and  the  overhanging  rocks  are  full  of 
wonderful  tints  ;  but  their  way  is  in  shadow — 
shadow  delightful  in  its  beauty  and  refreshment. 
"This  is  Jones's  Gap,"  says  Flora.  "It  leads 
over  the  Blue  Ridge,  down  to  South  Carolina." 

"  Do  we  follow  it  long  ?  "  asks  Charlton. 

"  No  ;  we  turn  off  very  soon  now,  and  ascend 
the  mountain  to  which  we  are  bound.  Here  is 
the  place — to  the  right,  over  that  bridge,  Mr. 
Charlton." 

Over  the  bridge  they  pass,  and  begin  the  as- 
cent of  the  mountain.  The  road  is  very  winding, 
their  progress  is  very  slow,  and  the  day  would 
prove  very  warm  but  for  the  forest  shade  which 
is  over  them,  and  the  pure  freshness  of  the  air. 
All  around  is  the  untouched  luxuriance  of  virgin 
Nature.  "  Where  is  the  view,  Floy  ?  "  asks  Nel- 
lie, anxiously. 

"  We  shall  soon  come  to  it,"  answers  Flora. 
"  We  are  near  the  summit.  Ah,  there  is  a 
glimpse  ! "  Minnie  utters  a  cry  of  delight.  Is 
it  the  ocean  —  that  marvelous  blue  plain  stretch- 


"LOVE  WAS  IX  THE   NEXT   DEGREE."         79 

ing  to  infinite  distance,   of  which  they  catch  a 
gleam  through  interlacing  foliage  ? 

"  Draw  up  yonder — where  you  see  those  rocks," 
says  Flora,  pointing  forward.  "  We  must  go  out 
on  the  Head.  It  is  not  a  good  time  of  day  for 
the  view,  but  still — " 

"  Of  course  we  must  go,"  says  Minnie.  She 
is  out  of  the  wagonette  almost  before  it  is  drawn 
up.  The  rest  descend  more  soberly  ;  the  horses 
are  left  in  the  shade.  On  this  side  the  mountain 
shelves  down  in  an  abrupt  precipice  to  the  plain  be- 
low. The  jutting  rock  formation  which,  viewed 
from  the  side,  makes  a  rude  outline  of  a  human 
head — and  in  another  place,  even  more  marked, 
of  a  lion's — is  the  point  from  which  the  eye  sweeps 
over  a  limitless  view. 

On  their  right  the  great  chain  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  stretches  westward,  but  in  every  other  di- 
rection lies  a  boundless  plain,  over  which  hangs  a 
magical  blue  light,  deepening  into  distance  till 
land  and  sky  blend  in  glimmering  mist. 

*'  Are  you  disappointed  ?  "  asks  Flora,  turning 
to  Charlton.  "I  feared  you  might  be — I  have 
said  so  much." 

"  You  have  not  said  nearly  enough,"  he  an- 
swers. "I  had  not  imaG^ined  anvthin<j:  half  so 
beautiful.     AVhat  an  ocean-like  effect  !  " 

"  Floy,  there's  a  gentleman  coming  round  the 
rock  T)chind  us,"  whispers  Nellie. 

P'lora  tui'ns  ;  then  she  smiles,  and  utters  an 


80  A  SUMMER  IDYL, 

exclamation.  Tlie  face  which  I^ellie  espied,  glanc- 
ing round  a  large  bowlder,  is  familiar  to  her.  "  Is 
that  you,  Mr.  Brandon  ?  "  she  says,  in  her  sweet, 
cordial  voice.  Then  she  holds  out  her  hand. 
*'  How  do  you  do  ? — and  where  do  you  come 
from?" 

At  this  Mr.  Brandon's  entire  figure  appears. 
He  lifts  his  hat,  showing  a  frank,  open  face.  His 
eyes  light  up.     He,  too,  smiles. 

"This  is  a  most  unexpected  pleasure.  Miss 
Flora,"  he  says.  "  I  was  down  in  the  cave  with 
a  book  and  a  cigar,  when  I  heard  voices  above, 
and  thought  I  would  come  up  and  see  who  they 
were.  Why,  Nellie,  have  you  forgotten  me  ?  Is 
that  Minnie?" 

"  Is  it  you,  JVIr.  Frank  ?  "  says  Minnie,  turning 
round  from  her  contemplation  of  the  view. 

There  are  hand-shakings,  greetings,  inquiries. 
Charlton  walks  away.  This  interruption  is  like  a 
jarring  discord  in  music  to  him.  He  goes  to  the 
extreme  verge  of  the  rocks,  and  stands  there,  look- 
ing out  into  space.  Below  birds  are  wheeling  like 
tiny  specks  ;  over  the  boundless  expanse  of  coun- 
try soft  cloud-shadows  lie  ;  the  breeze  is  pure  and 
fresh  enough  to  have  come  from  the  courts  of 
Paradise.  The  great  rugged  cliffs  of  the  moun- 
tain are  feathered  over  with  the  forest-growth 
which  in  these  regions  springs  everywhere. 

Presently  they  turn  and  go  back  to  the  wagon- 
ette, drive  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther,  and  draw 


"LOVE  WAS   IN   THE  NEXT  DEGREE."         81 

up  before  the  long  piazza  of  the  hotel,  where 
Colonel  Tyrrell  is  seated — one  of  a  grouj>  of 
gentlemen  who  are  smoking  at  their  ease. 

At  dinner,  to  Charlton's  disgust,  Mr.  Brandon 
asserts  his  rights  of  old  friendship  by  taking  a 
seat  at  Flora's  side  and  talking  to  her  with  great 
animation.  Every  other  one  of  his  speeches  is 
prefaced  with  "  Do  you  remember  ?  " — a  form  of 
address  naturally  disgusting  to  a  new  friend, 
since  it  indicates  many  memories  in  common. 
Flora  is  kind  and  courteous,  but  she  does  not  en- 
courage these  reminiscences.  The  reason  of  this 
soon  appears. 

'^We  were  here  together  once  before,"  says 
JMr.  Brandon,  with  the  best  possible  intention  of 
making  himself  agreeable.  "  Two  years  ago,  I 
believe  it  was.  I  remember  that  Harry  was  with 
us,  and  I  have  not  seen  him  since.  What  a  de- 
licrhtful  time  we  had  !  I  was  thinkino:  of  it  as  I 
lay  down  in  the  cave  just  before  I  heard  your 
voice  above.     Odd,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  singular  coincidence,"  answers 
Flora.  She  speaks  quietly,  but  Charlton — who  by 
this  time  has  learned  to  know  every  trick  of  her 
face  and  tone  of  her  voice — feels  that  the  subject 
is  distasteful  to  her.  He  finds  himself  wondering 
why  this  should  be.  Having  decided  that  she  cares 
nothing  for  Harry,  he  has  of  late  given  little 
thought  to  that  gentleman  ;  but  now  Frank  Bran- 
don's careless  words  bring  back  a  sense  of  doubt. 
0 


82  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

How  pleasantly  the  days  go  by,  those  who 
have  spent  such  days  of  golden  summer  need 
not  be  told.  It  is  like  an  idyl — and  one  of  Na- 
ture's own  telling — only  to  sit  on  the  rocks,  in  the 
mellow  sunshine,  and  watch  the  great  white  bil- 
lowy clouds  sailing  athwart  the  sky,  their  soft 
shadows  falling  over  the  far- stretching  land,  over 
plantations  that  look  like  gardens,  over  hills  like 
mounds,  over  distant  towns  with  steeples  shining, 
over  wooded  mountain-sides  on  which  the  blue 
haze  of  distance  lies.  On  one  of  the  crag-like 
points  which  command  this  view  Flora  sits  one 
morning,  with  Charlton  on  a  rock  at  her  feet. 
They  have  been  talking  idly.  Now  and  then  si- 
lence settles  over  them.  It  does  so  now.  Sev- 
eral minutes  elapse  before  either  speaks  again. 
Finally  voices  float  to  them,  and  Charlton,  stir- 
ring slightly,  frowns. 

"  Some  people  are  coming,"  he  remarks. 
"  What  a  bore  !  Perhaps  they  want  to  propose 
an  expedition.  Something  was  said  at  breakfast 
about  Table  Rock." 

"  I  shall  not  go,"  says  Flora.  "  I  am  tired  of 
expeditions  for  the  present.  Especially  I  am 
tired  of  making  one  of  a  large  party.  Now,  as 
we  went  to  Conestee — " 

"  Ah,  Conestee  !  "  says  Charlton,  smiling.  "  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  Not  even  the  beautiful 
falls  of  the  Saluda  and  Little  River  have  eclipsed 
the  recollection  of  it." 


"LOVE   WAS   IN  TOE  NEXT   DEGREE."         83 

"Recollection  often  flatters  and  magnifies," 
says  Flora,  shaking  her  head,  but  smiling,  too. 
"  You  must  not  go  back  to  Conestee,  else  you  might 
be  disappointed.  If  one  has  a  pleasant  memory, 
I  think  it  is  best  not  to  endanger  it  by  bringing  it 
in  contact  with  reality  again." 

"  I  wonder  where  you  learned  such  philoso- 
phy ?  "  says  Charlton.  "  By  all  means  bring  recol- 
lection as  often  as  possible  in  contact  with  reali- 
ties, and,  if  they  won't  stand  the  test,  let  them 
go  !  Don't  live  in  a  world  of  shadows.  It  is  the 
worst  thing  that  can  befall  any  one." 

"  You  talk  of  letting  memories  go,  as  if,  in 
that  case,  one  would  not  have  to  let  a  great  deal 
of  one's  self  go  with  them,"  says  Flora,  almost 
resentfully. 

"  Even  in  that  case  it  is  best  for  them  to  go. 
They  are  not  healthy  food,"  Charlton  answers. 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders  lightly,  and,  without 
answering  otherwise,  takes  her  straw  hat,  which 
lies  beside  her,  and  begins  to  tie  it  on.  "  Those 
voices  are  coming  nearer,"  she  says,  "  and  I  don't 
think  I  am  in  the  mood  for  society.  You  said 
the  other  day  that  you  would  like  to  see  the  view 
from  the  other  side  of  the  mountain — the  side 
overlooking  Jones's  Gap.  Should  you  like  to  go 
now  ?  " 

"  Very  much,  indeed,"  he  replies,  rising  with 
alacrity. 

"  You  must  walk  a  mile — a  very  long  mile." 


84  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  mind  that,  if  you  do 
not  ?  " 

"  Your  ankle  may  suffer,  however." 

"  My  ankle  is  ahnost  entirely  well.  It  only 
gives  a  twinge  now  and  then,  and  I  am  sure  it  is 
quite  equal  to  your  long  mile." 

"  Then  we  will  go." 

She  rises — or  at  least  attempts  to  do  so.  But 
her  dress  is  caught  by  a  stone,  she  turns  to  release 
it,  and  her  foot  slips.  In  another  instant  she 
might  have  gone  over  the  precipice,  down  to  a 
death  too  awful  to  contemplate,  if  Charlton's  arm 
had  not  encircled  and  drawn  her  back.  It  is  only 
an  instant — but  an  instant  that  he  never  forgets. 
Some  moments  contain  within  themselves  the 
principle  of  eternity.  This  is  one  of  them.  Her 
slight  figure  clinging  to  him,  her  soft  hair  blow- 
ing across  his  lips — these  things  thrill  him  sud- 
denly with  a  consciousness  which  is  like  a  revela- 
tion. It  is  new  and  yet  old,  familiar  and  yet 
unknown  before.  Man  of  the  world  as  he  is,  and 
well  trained  in  self-control,  he  cannot  utter  a 
word.     It  is  Flora  who,  drawing  away,  speaks. 

"Thank  you  very  much.  That  was  exceed- 
ingly awkward  of  me,  and  one  cannot  afford  to 
be  awkward  on  such  a  pinnacle  as  this." 

"  You  came  very  near  falling  into  the  chasm," 
he  says,  a  little  hoarsely. 

She  turns  her  head,  and  looking  down  into  the 
chasm,  shudders.     "  If   I  had,"  she  says,  "  how 


"LOVE  WAS  IN  THE   NEXT   DEGREE."         85 

terrible  it  would  have  been — for  me  and  also  for 
you  !  I  should  have  been  killed,  and  you  would 
have  been  haunted  by  the  horror  of  having  wit- 
nessed such  a  thing.     I  am  glad  you  caught  me.'* 

Then,  without  saying  anything  more,  they 
turn  and  scramble  back  over  the  rocks  to  the  top 
of  the  mountain.  Skirting  around  the  large  bowl- 
ders which  cover  the  Head,  they  avoid  the  party 
gathered  there,  but  do  not  avoid  certain  scraps  of 
their  conversation. 

"Floy  and  Mr.  Charlton  ought  to  be  here 
somewhere,"  says  Minnie's  voice. 

"  Perhaps  they  are  down  in  the  cave,  engaged 
in  the  amusement  for  which  it  is  famous,"  sug- 
gests Mr.  Brandon. 

"  Do  you  mean  flirting  ?  "  inquires  a  lively 
young  lady.  "  I  should  not  suspect  either  of  them 
of  knowing  anji;hing  about  such  an  amusement." 

"  They  don't  !  "  says  Minnie,  a  little  indig- 
nantly. "  At  least,  I  know  nothing  about  Mr. 
Charlton — only  I  should  think  he  was  too  old  for 
anything  of  that  kind — but  I  do  know  that  Floy 
never  flirted  in  her  life." 

"  It  is  never  too  late  to  begin,  my  dear,"  says 
the  young  lady,  with  a  laugh. 

"  They  certainly  seem  uncommonly  partial  to 
each  other's  society,"  remarks  Mr.  Brandon. 

The  two  involuntary  listeners,  who  thus  ex- 
emplify the  old  proverb  by  hearing  no  good  of 
themselves,  look  at  each  other  as  they  pass  out  of 


86  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

the  sound  of  the  voices.     Charlton  is  doubtful 
what  Flora  may  think,  but  she  only  smiles. 

"  How  do  you  fancy  the  imputation  of  being 
too  old  to  flirt?"  she  asks.  "You  must  excuse 
Minnie.  In  the  eyes  of  fifteen,  thirty-five  is  the 
border  of  middle  life." 

"  She  is  quite  right,"  says  Charlton ;  "  I  am 
too  old  to  flirt — too  old  in  mind  if  not  in  years. 
In  my  youngest  days,  however,  I  was  not  partial 
to  the  amusement.  I  had  always  a  sense  of  austere, 
and  no  doubt  uncharitable,  contempt  for  men  who 
make  it  the  business  of  their  lives.  But  then  I 
was  never  a  society  man,  and  so,  perhaps,  I  could 
not  estimate  their  temptations.  When  I  was  young 
society  did  not  recognize  me.  Of  late  it  has  been 
graciously  pleased  to  acknowledge  my  existence, 
after  a  certain  patronizing  fashion,  but  I  cannot 
say  that  its  favors  have  been  very  gratefully  re- 
ceived. Hence  I  am  like  yourself — I  never  flirted 
in  my-  life.  We  stand  on  that  much  common 
ground,  at  all  events." 

"  Why  are  you  sure  that  I  never  flirted  ?  Min- 
nie does  not  know." 

"  I  know.     There  is  fitness  in  all  things." 

"  But  not  consistency  in  all  characters." 

"No,  not  at  all — only  in  some.  But  where 
are  we  going  ?  Yonder  is  the  hotel,  and  I  thought 
we  were  to  see  the  view  from — or  is  it  over  ? — 
Jones's  Gap  ! " 

"  We  turn  by  the  spring.     Are  you  thirsty  ? 


"LOVE   WAS  IN   THE   NEXT   DEGREE."         87 

The  water  here  is  so  cool  that  it  tempts  one  to 
drink  merely  for  the  sake  of  drinking." 

They  approach  the  spring,  which  is  very  large, 
limpid,  and  beautiful.  "There  is  nothing  but 
this  out  of  which  to  drink,"  says  Flora,  taking 
up  a  huntsman's  horn  which  is  lying  near,  left  by 
some  thirsty  and  forgetful  hunter. 

She  kneels  down  on  the  gray  rocks — a  graceful, 
unconscious  figure,  over  which  the  flickering 
shadows  fall.  All  things  fresh  and  Arcadian 
seem  to  meet  in  her.  To  Charlton  she  appears 
like  an  incarnation  of  the  sylvan  sweetness  which 
surrounds  him.  It  is  the  Flora  of  mythology  who 
is  kneeling  there,  with  Diana's  horn  in  her  hand 
— fair,  tender,  wild,  the  music  of  the  streams  in 
her  voice,  the  blueness  of  the  skies  in  her  eyes. 
Are  his  eyes  enchanted?  It  may  be  ;  but  some- 
times such  enchantment  is  not  only  better,  but 
also  wiser,  than  all  the  wisdom  of  earth. 

After  he  has  drunk  from  the  horn,  which  she 
holds  to  him  full  of  liquid  crystal,  they  leave  the 
spring  behind  and  enter  the  forest.  There  is  a 
road  for  some  distance,  then  a  path,  and  finally 
merely  a  trail  which  eyes  inexperienced  in  wood- 
craft would  not  observe.  Flora  sees  and  follows 
it  without  difliculty.  Charlton  loiters  by  her  side 
— for  they  do  not  overheat  themselves  by  fast 
walking — and  thinks  that  he  has  never  before 
been  so  near  the  perfection  of  existence.  Their 
way  is  level,  for  this  is  the  summit  of  the  moun- 


88  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

tain  over  which  they  are  passing,  and  the  forest 
around  them  is  as  still  and  green  as  if  no  human 
presence  had  ever  entered  it. 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  was  enchanted,  does  it  not  ?  " 
says  Flora.  "  Everything  is  so  wild  and  beauti- 
ful !  " 

"It  is  a  wonderful  country,"  says  Charlton, 
"  and  you  are  wonderfully  devoted  to  it." 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  she  says.  "  How  could  I 
be  anything  else  ?  Would  not  you  be  devoted  to 
it  if  it  were  your  native  country  ?  "  ■ 

"  I  think  I  might  become  so — if  I  staid  here 
long  enough — even  without  that  advantage,"  he 
replies. 

"  I  have  never  been  out  of  it  but  once,"  says 
Flora.  "  Then  I  was  sent  away — down  to  the  low 
country — to  school,  and  thought  I  should  die  of 
homesickness.  I  pined  for  the  great  blue  hills  till 
they  were  forced  to  bring  me  back.  Of  course  I 
should  not  be  so  foolish  now.  I  should  try  to 
content  myself  wherever  I  was  forced  to  live. 
But  my  heart — ah,  I  know  that  it  would  always 
*flee  as  a  bird  to  the  mountains.'  " 

"  It  is  a  very  tender  and  constant  heart,"  says 
Charlton. 

Talking  in  this  way,  they  proceed  in  their  walk. 
It  ends  after  a  time  as  all  things  do — even  the 
long  and  loosely-reckoned  miles  which  are  a  pecu- 
liarity of  this  country.  The  two  pedestrians  sud- 
denly emerge  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  woods 


"LOVE  WAS  IN  THE  NEXT   DEGREE."         89 

and  find  themselves  on  the  verge  of  the  moun- 
tain. It  slopes  down  on  a  precipice  almost  as 
abrupt  as  that  on  the  other  side  ;  ]>ut  here  the 
wonderful  forest  covers  every  rood  of  ground, 
and  the  eye  rests  on  that  sea  of  green,  melting 
gradually  into  blue,  to  which  the  traveler  in  these 
virgin  solitudes  soon  grows  accustomed. 

Flora  advances  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
and,  passing  one  arm  around  a  tree,  sinks  down 
on  its  moss-covered  roots.  "  Look  !  "  she  says  to 
her  companion.     "  Is  it  not  grand  ?  " 

Certainly  it  is.  Far  below  lies  the  narrow 
pass,  extending  miles  in  length  ;  on  each  side  of 
where  they  stand,  the  mountains  stretch  away  to 
dim  distance.  The  grandeur,  the  silence,  the 
wildness  of  the  scene  is  beyond  all  expression. 
The  glory  of  towering  heights,  the  shifting  l)eau- 
ty  of  lights  and  shades  and  tints,  the  lucid  sky, 
the  floating  clouds,  the  great  presence  of  absolute 
solitude — there  are  no  w^ords  in  which  to  speak 
fitly  of  these  things. 

There  is  a  long  silence  before  Charlton  speaks. 
Then  he  says  :  "  I  am  glad  that  you  brought  me 
here.  This  is  the  most  impressive  view  that  I 
have  seen  yet,  and  altogether  iridike  any  other. 
What  superb  heights  !  and  how  we  are  girt  by 
them  ! " 

"  They  are  magnificent,"  says  Flora,  gazing  at 
them  lovingly.     "  But  do  you  not  feel  in  such 


90  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

scenes  as  if  you  conld  not  admire  sufficiently  all 
that  there  is  to  admire  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  every  one  is  conscious  of  such  a  feel- 
ing, I  suppose.  It  springs  from  the  poverty  of 
our  emotions.  More  is  given  than  we  can  appre- 
ciate or  enjoy,  even  with  our  utmost  effort." 

"But  why  is  it  so?" 

"  Ah,  who  can  tell  ?  It  is  the  same  old  note 
of  disappointment  which  enters  into  every  chord 
of  human  pleasure.  One  grows  to  expect  it  after 
a  while.  Nothing  is  perfect.  We  are  vexed 
either  by  the  poverty  or  the  aspiration  of  our 
souls." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  as  well,"  says  Flora.  "  No  doubt 
it  is  good  for  us  to  possess  the  unsatisfied  ideals 
that  vex  us.  There  must  of  necessity  always  be 
some  things  which  we  '  cannot  compass  in  our 
speech ' — nor  in  our  lives." 

"That  sounds  a  trifle  obscure.  I  am  afraid 
you  are  inclined  to  be  mystical,"  he  says,  turning 
his  glance  from  the  mountains  to  her  face. 

She  laughs  as  her  eyes  meet  his.  "  What  will 
you  tell  me  next  ?  "  she  asks.  "  A  short  time  ago 
I  was  inclined  to  be  morbid — and  now  mystical. 
WTiat  an  odd — and  not  particularly  admu-able — 
patchwork  my  character  seems  to  be  !  " 

"  You  know  better  than  that,"  he  says.  "  It 
is  not  your  character  which  is  in  fault ;  it  is  I  who 
blundered  in  reading  it,  who  indeed  have  lost  the 
power  of  reading  it.     And  I  wonder  " — here  he 


"SWEET   IS   TRUE   LOVE."  91 

pauses  for  a  moment — "  if  you  know  why  I  have 
lost  it." 

"  No,"  she  answers,  simply.  "  I  should  think 
that  if  you  chose  to  read  it,  nothing  would  be 
easier  than  for  you  to  do  so." 

"Nothing  probably  would  be  easier,"  he  says, 
quietly,  "  if  I  did  not  love  you." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


IX   VAIN. 


SWEET    IS    TRUE    LOVE,    TIIOUGU    GIVEN    IN    VAIN, 

5) 


After  this  declaration  there  follows  a  minute 
of  silence.  Flora  is  so  much  astonished,  so  thor- 
oughly disconcerted,  that  she  almost  doubts  the 
evidence  of  her  ears.  It  cannot  be  that  Charlton 
has  really  said  that  he  loves  her  !  She  must  have 
misunderstood,  have  made  a  mistake.  The  blood 
which  rushed  to  her  face  subsides,  the  sense  of 
confusion  leaves  her  ;  she  turns  and  looks  at  her 
companion. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  she  says. 

Charlton  on  his  part  is  perfectly  quiet  and 
cool.  He  had  no  intention  of  making  such  a  con- 
fession two  minutes  before  he  did  make  it,  but  he 
has  no  idea  of  receding  from  it  now  that  it  has 
been  made.  Though  he  has  never  had  very  much 
to  do  with  women,  he  is  one  of  the  least  shy  of 


92  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

men,  and  his  self-command  in  all  emergencies  is  a 
proverb  with  his  friends.  The  hazel  eyes  meet 
the  blue  ones  steadily.     He  smiles. 

"  Shall  I  make  you  understand  ?  "  he  says.  "  I 
wonder  if  it  is  worth  while.  Rather — I  know  it 
is  not  w^orth  while  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and 
perhaps  you  wonder  why  I  do  not  shrink  from 
useless  pain  and  mortification.  But  then,  luckily, 
self-love  has  never  been  with  me  a  very  trouble- 
some sentiment.  Few  men  would  tell  a  woman 
whom  they  know  to  be  thoroughly  indifferent  to 
them  that  they  loved  her.  Their  vanity  would  be 
naturally  averse  to  that  which  is  called  a  'rejec- 
tion.' But  my  vanity  does  not  trouble  me  on 
such  a  score.  In  fact,  I  am  not  foolish  enough  to 
make  any  proposal  which  you  would  be  forced  to 
reject.  I  simply  tell  you,  as  something  which 
concerns  and  may  probably  interest  you  a  little, 
that  I  have  learned  to  love  you." 

"  But — why  tell  me  ?  "  asks  Flora.  She  is  so 
much  surprised  that  the  question  rises  involuntari- 
ly to  her  lips. 

"  I  scarcely  know  why  I  have  told  you,"  Charl- 
ton answers,  "  unless  it  be  that  it  is  an  impulse  to 
tell  you  the  truth.  It  seems  the  natural  and 
straightforward  thing  to  do.  You  are  so  simple, 
so  direct,  yourself.  Therefore  I  am  sure  you  will 
hear  me  reasonably  and  kindly.  It  may  be  a  mis- 
fortune, it  is  certainly  not  a  fault,  to  love  you." 

"  A  fault ! "  repeats  Flora.     "It  is  certainly 


"SWEET   IS  TRUE   LOVE."  93 

not  a  fault,"  she  says,  very  gently,  "but  it  may 
be — do  you  not  think  ? — a  mistake.  Why  should 
you  love  me  ?  You  know  very  little  of  me,  and 
that  little  is  commonplace  in  the  extreme.  I  could 
never  have  imagined  that  you  would  care  for  me 
— you  who  have  seen  so  much  of  the  world." 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  explain  why  I  care 
for  you,"  says  Charlton.  "  Who  can  analyze 
love?  As  you  say,  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of 
the  world,  and  I  have  come  in  contact  with  many 
women — some  of  them  beautiful,  a  few  of  them 
clever.  But  I  never  met  any  woman  before  who 
was  to  me  so  sympathetic  as  yourself.  My  idea 
has  been  that,  when  a  woman  entered  a  man's  life, 
she  entered  it  to  disturb  it ;  and,  valuing  above 
everything  the  calm  necessary  for  the  intellectual 
life,  I  have  consequently  avoided  women.  But, 
wherever  you  are,  there  is  serenity.  You  are  al- 
ways harmonious,  you  are  gentle,  you  are  tender, 
and  yet  you  are  strong.  Do  I  vex  you  by  speak- 
ing in  this  manner  ?  "  (as  she  shrinks  a  little  and 
a  flush  comes  to  her  face).  "I  did  not  mean  to 
do  so.  I  thought  we  might  discuss  the  matter 
quietly,  but  if  it  troubles  you — " 

"It  does  not  trouble  me,"  says  Flora,  more 
and  more  surprised,  "but  I  am  sorry  that  you 
overrate  me  so  much.  I  cannot  understand  it. 
Why  should  you  have  conceived  such  an  idea  of 
me  V  " 

"  Why,  indeed,  if  it  is  uot  a  true  one  ?    I  have 


94  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

been  studying  you  attentively  and  dispassionately 
for  weeks  ;  why  should  I  have  imagined  you  to 
be  all  of  these  things  if  you  are  none  of  them  ? 
Nothing  in  my  life  has  ever  surprised  me  more 
than  to  find  myself  in  love  with  you.  The  knowl- 
edge has  come  to  me  very  gradually.  I  did  not 
grasp  it — or  at  least  I  did  not  realize  it  in  its  com- 
pleteness— until  an  hour  ago." 

*'  In  that  case,"  says  Flora,  "  what  has  come  so 
quickly  may  pass  as  soon." 

"You  misunderstand  me  if  you  think  it  has 
come  quickly.  So  far  from  that,  I  could  go  back 
to  our  first  meeting  and  trace  its  steady  growth 
to  the  present  time.  But  such  a  retrospection 
would  not  interest  you.  One  must  be  moderate 
even  in  egotism.  I  am  not  presumptuous  enough 
to  fancy  that  you  give  me  a  thought  beyond  kind- 
ly friendship  now.  But  may  I  try  to  win  some- 
thing more  from  you — in  time  ?  " 

If  he  does  not  speak  eagerly  and  passionately 
— as  Flora  has  perhaps  imagined  that  lovers  al- 
ways speak — there  is  at  least  no  room  to  doubt 
that  he  is  in  earnest.  As  she  hesitates — not  know- 
ing in  what  words  to  frame  her  reply — ^he  goes  on  : 

"  Don't  mistake  me — don't  think  that  I  desire 
any  pledge  of  encouragement.  I  only  ask  leave 
to  try  to  win  your  heart.  Probably  I  shall  fail — 
I  have  a  suspicion  that  Xature  did  not  fit  me  to 
win  a  woman's  fancy — but  I  should  like  to  try. 
May  I  do  so  ?  " 


"SWEET   IS  TRUE   LOVE."  95 

Over  the  last  words  his  voice  falls.  It  is  gen- 
tle— it  is  almost  beseeching.  Flora  is  inexpressi- 
bly touched.  All  this  to /«er/  It  seems  incredi- 
ble. AVhat  glamour  has  come  over  Charlton's 
sight  ? 

"  Why  do  you  think  of  me  in  this  way  ?  "  she 
asks.  "  You  must  forgive  me  if  I  say  that  it  is 
ver)--  foolish.  I  am  not  what  you  imagine — not  at 
all.  As  for  this  which  you  bestow  on  me,  it  is  a 
very  great  gift — nothing  on  earth  is  more  great 
or  precious  ;  but  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  that  you 
give  it  to  me.  You  should  keep  it  for  some  one- 
else,  who  could  value  it  and  make  it  the  crowning 
jewel  of  her  life." 

"  I  would  rather  give  it  to  you  for  a  plaything 
— if  you  have  no  other  use  for  it,"  says  Charlton, 
"ifobody  is  ever  likely  to  value  or  make  it  a 
cro^vning  jewel,  I  fear.  Don't  look  grieved ! 
There  is  no  reason  why  you  should.  If  I  have  a 
mind  to  give  you  something  for  which  I  expect 
no  return,  whose  affair  is  it  but  my  own  ?  I  shall 
be  sorry  that  I  said  anything  about  it  if  you  let  it 
annoy  you  in  any  way." 

"  You  must  think  me  very  selfish  if  you  im- 
agine that  I  could  possibly  not  be  grieved,"  says 
Flora,  with  a  cadence  of  indignation  in  her  voice. 
"  I  have  liked  you  so  much,  and  now — " 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  stop  liking  me  ?  " 
he  says,  smiling.  "  Why  should  you  be  distressed 
by  what  is  no  fault  of  yours?     Why  should  you 


96  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

change  in  your  feeling  toward  me,  or  let  a  cloud 
come  between  us  ?  I  have  told  you  frankly  what 
I  feel  toward  you,  but  this  binds  you  to  nothing. 
You  are  only  asked  to  receive — not  to  give.  In 
time,  perhaps — " 

But  here  she  inteiTupts  him.  "  I  must  not  let 
you  count  on  what  can  never  be,"  she  says. 
"  Time  can  work  no  change.  As  I  like  you  now, 
I  shall  like  you  always  ;  but  I  can  never  love 
you." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  "  says  Charlton.  He 
asks  the  question  with  a  wistf  ulness  which  touches 
her  afresh.  He  is  startled  by  the  positive  form  of 
her  declaration.  She  is  not  a  woman  to  talk  at 
random,  he  knows.  In  love  a  man  continually 
advances  from  one  discovery  to  another:  Charlton 
at  this  moment  discovers  how  much  he  hoped. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  she  answers.  Her  eyes  turn 
away  from  his  face  to  the  steadfast  mountains. 
She  looks  at  the  outlines  of  their  splendid  crests 
with  a  shadow  of  doubt  and  trouble  in  her  glance. 
Charlton  feels  it,  and  speaks  with  what  she  feels 
to  be  great  gentleness.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
sorry  I  am  to  have  pained  you  in  this  manner. 
Do  not  think  of  it  any  more.  Let  us  fancy  that 
we  have  been  amusing  ourselves  with  the  rehear- 
sal of  a  little  comedy,  and  now  we  will  go  back  to 
our  pleasant  friendship.  I  have  only  one  thing  to 
ask — don't  let  my  folly  bring  any  constraint  be- 
tween us.     I  shall  not  forgive  myself  if  it  does. 


"SWEET  IS  TRUE   LOVE."  97 

You  cannot  tell  how  much  I  value  your  kindness 
— and  I  shall  not  misinterpret  it." 

"  It  is  you  who  arc  kind — very  kind  !  "  cries 
the  girl.  Then  she  turns  to  him  suddenly.  Iler 
eyes  expand,  a  glow  of  resolution  conies  into  her 
lace.  "  I  can  make  only  one  return  for  all  that 
you  give  me,"  she  says  ;  "  but  that  return  I  loill 
make.  I  can  tell  you  more  than  I  have  told  any 
one  else — about  myself." 

"  Not  unless  you  are  sure  that  you  will  not  re- 
gret having  done  so,"  says  Charlton,  quickly. 
"  You  can  tell  me  nothing  of  yourself  that  will  not 
interest  me,  nothing  I  shall  not  be  glad  to  hear  ; 
but  you  must  not  do  so  from  any  mistaken  idea 
of  owing  me  an  explanation.  There  is  not  the 
least  necessity  for  anything  of  that  kind." 

"  I  think  there  is,"  says  Flora.  "  Am  I  to 
make  no  return  for  all  that  you  give  me  ?  You 
say  that  you  only  ask  me  to  receive  ;  but  surely 
that  is  an  ungracious  role,  to  receive  so  much, 
and  make  not  even  an  acknowledtnnent.  I  would 
rather  tell  you  everything  ;  but  you  must  promise 
not  to  repeat  it." 

"  Is  it  possible  you  think  that  1  could — " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  could  ;  but  still  I  will 
feel  more  safe  if  you  promise." 

"  I  do  promise,  then,  to  hold  all  that  you  may 

choose  to  tell  me  absolutely  sacred  ;  but  I  beg 

you  again  not  to  tell  me  anything  that  you  are 

likely  to  regret  afterward.     At  all  events,  don't 

7 


98  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

speak  hastily.  Wait  till  to-morrow.  In  the 
mean  time  think  a  little — will  you  not  ? — of  what 
I  have  said.  I  put  myself  in  your  hands.  I  am 
your  friend  or  your  lover,  as  you  choose.  All 
that  I  ask  is  permission  to  try  and  win  your  heart. 
I  hope — I  think — that  I  might  make  you  happy  if 
you  could  learn  to  love  me  ;  and  I  am  sure  that 
you  would  make  me  much  more  than  happy." 

"  You  cannot  tell,"  says  Flora.  "  I  am  not 
half  that  you  think  me.  You  would  soon  find 
that  out.  But,  nevertheless,  I  must  thank  you 
for  thinking  so  well  of  me,"  she  adds. 

"  Never  mind  thanking  me  for  that,"  he  says. 
"  Perhaps  I  would  not  think  so  well  of  you  if  I 
could  help  it." 

At  this  Flora  smiles,  as  he  intended  that  she 
should.  And  then  they  rise.  The  idea  occurs 
to  both  of  them  that  it  is  time  to  start  homeward. 
So  they  bid  adieu  to  the  solemn  beauty  of  the 
great  pass,  the  unchanging  grandeur  of  the  moun- 
tains, dappled  softly  with  cloud-shadows,  and 
turn  away. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  LOVE    THE    GIFT   IS    LOVE   THE   DEBT." 

The  evenings  at  Caesar's  Head  are  very  pleas- 
ant. After  sunset  the  air  grows  so  chilly  that 
fires  are  often  necessary  for  comfort ;  and  no  one 


"LOVE   THE   GIFT   IS   LOVE   THE   DEBT."        99 

can  deny  their  cheerful,  picturesque  effect.  Vis- 
itors are  coming  and  going  constantly.  This 
evening  the  house  is  crowded  to  its  utmost  capa- 
city. A  party  of  tourists  from  Asheville  arrive  in 
time  to  see  the  sunset  from  the  Head,  and  talk  of 
it  rapturously  at  supper.  They  are  so  full  of  en- 
thusiasm, so  overflowing  with  admiration  of  the 
country  through  which  they  have  passed,  that  the 
mountaineers  present  incline  to  them  kindly,  and 
volunteer  a  great  deal  of  information.  Mr.  Bran- 
don advises  them  strongly  to  go  to  the  Balsam 
Mountains.  "  I  took  a  strav  artist  who  had  wan- 
dered  to  this  region  up  there  last  summer,"  he 
says,  "  and  I  thought  the  fellow  would  lose  his 
senses.  *  Great  Heaven  ! '  he  exclaimed — only  he 
was  more  emphatic — *  that  such  a  paradise  should 
be  unknown  ! ' " 

"  This  is  your  country,  then  ? — you  live  here  ?  " 
says  a  dark-eyed  young  lady — with  something  of 
French  vivacity  in  her  manner — turning  to  him. 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  country,  and  I  wouldn't  ex- 
change it  for  any  other  in  the  world  ! "  returns 
the  young  Carolinian,  proudly.  "  When  it  comes 
to  be  known,  it  will  be  such  a  resort  for  America 
as  Switzerland  is  for  P]urope." 

One  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  is  mean- 
while talking  to  Colonel  TyiTcll.  "  Wq  came  by 
Flat  Rock,"  he  says,  "  but  we  have  been  advised 
to  return  through  Transylvania,  lliere  is  said  to 
be  some  beautiful  scenery  in  that  country." 


100  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

"  We  must  not  fail  to  see  the  valley  of  the 
French  Broad,"  says  the  yonng  lady,  turning 
round.  "  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  that  charming 
Mr.  Sunderland,  who  advised  us  to  come  here, 
said  that  he  used  to  live  there." 

There  is  a  minute's  silence  ;  then  Colonel  Tyr- 
rell says,  "  If  you  mean  my  nephew,  Harry  Sun- 
derland, he  certainly  used  to  live  there." 

"  Of  course  I  mean  Harry  Sunderland,"  says 
the  young  lady.  "  Is  he  your  nephew  ?  How 
glad  I  am  to  meet  you  !  I  have  heard  him  talk  so 
often  of  his  uncle  who  lives  on  the  French  Broad  ! 
Are  you  that  uncle  ?  How  delightful !  I  am 
Miss  Dupont,  from  New  Orleans.  We  came  up 
to  Asheville  from  the  Warm  Springs.  Gertrude 
Preston  is  my  most  intimate  friend.  Your  nephew 
is  engaged  to  her,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  If  so,  I  am  not  aware  of  the  fact,"  says 
Colonel  Tyrrell,  a  little  stiffly. 

"  Suppose  we  retreat  ? "  says  Charlton  in  a 
low  voice  to  Flora. 

She  assents,  and  they  quietly  leave  the  table  ; 
not  so  quietly  but  that  Miss  Dupont's  dark  eyes 
f  olloAV  them.  "  Ciel !  "  she  says,  "  what  a  sweet 
face  that  girl  has  1  Your  daughter.  Colonel  Tyi'- 
rell  ?  Oh  !  I  beg  pardon  ;  but  pray  introduce 
me." 

This  introduction  does  not  take  place  very 
soon.  When  Miss  Dupont  and  her  party  leave 
the  supper-room,  Flora  is  not  to  be  found.    Charl- 


"LOVE   THE   GIFT   IS  LOVE  THE   DEBT."     IQl 

ton  has  also  disappeared,  as  Mr.  Brandon  remarks. 
"  AVhat  do  you  tliink,  noio  f  "  he  says  to  Minnie. 
"  It  is  either  a  case  of  flirtation,  or  something  very 
serious.  Take  care  that  you  don't  lose  your  sis- 
ter ;  though,  by  Jove  !  it  will  be  too  bad  if  she 
throw  herself  away  on  that  fellow  !  I  always 
thought  she  would  marry  Sunderland,  or  I  should 
have  asked  her  to  marry  rue  long  ago." 

*'  She  wouldn't  have  dreamed  of  doing  it," 
says  Minnie,  uncivilly.  "  As  for  Harry,  I  don't 
know  what  Miss  Dupont  means  by  talking  of  his 
being  engaged  to  anybody.  We  should  certainly 
have  heard  of  it,  if  he  was." 

"  That  might  not  follow,"  says  Mr.  Brandon. 
"  But  I'll  go  and  find  out  all  about  it." 

Meanwhile,  when  Charlton  says  to  Flora, 
"Come  out  and  avoid  those  people.  Let  us  go 
over  to  the  knoll  and  see  the  moon  rise,"  she 
wraps  a  shawl  around  her,  and  they  go  out  to  the 
knoll  in  front  of  the  house,  whence  they  look 
eastward.  In  daylight  the  view  is  beautiful.  The 
blue  plain  stretches  away  southward  and  west- 
ward, but  in  the  east  and  north  mountains  on 
mountains  rise,  cloud-girt,  azure-robed,  melting 
into  lovely  distance. 

Just  now  all  the  landscape  is  veiled  in  obscu- 
rity, except  that  along  the  crests  of  the  far  heights 
there  is  an  alabaster  glow  which  shows  that  the 
moon  is  behind  them.  "  She  will  soon  be  here," 
says  Charlton  ;  and  they  sit  down  to  wait  for  her 


102  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

coming.  She  does  not  long  delay.  First  the  edge 
of  her  disk  appears  ;  then  by  degrees  the  whole 
silver  shield  rises  into  the  cloudless  hyacinth  sky. 
The  world  is  bathed  in  mystic  beauty  ;  dark  out- 
lines and  silvery  mist  make  up  the  scene,  but 
nothing  could  be  fairer. 

"I  remember  that  we  saw  this  same  moon 
when  she  was  a  mere  thread  of  silver,"  says  Charl- 
ton. "  Do  you  remember  ?  It  was  down  on  the 
river  bank  one  evening." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  answers  Flora.  "You 
asked  me — or  I  asked  you — about  Harry.  How- 
ever it  was,  we  talked  of  him.  I  knew  then 
that  he  was  in  love,  but  I  did  not  suspect  that 
he  would  be  engaged  without  telling  his  old 
friends." 

"I  do  not  believe  that  he  is  engaged,"  says 
Charlton.  "  He  certainly  was  not  when  I  saw  or 
when  I  heard  from  him  last.  Gossip  generally 
outstrips  fact.  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  it. 
If  it  is  true  he  will  certainly  tell  you." 

"  But  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  is  in  love  with 
Miss  Preston,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"He  fancies  that  he  is,"  says  Charlton,  who 
has  no  very  high  opinion  of  Harry's  stability. 

"  What  is  she  like  ?  "  asks  Flora.  "  You  have 
never  said  anything  about  her,  and  Harry  has  mere- 
ly mentioned  her  name." 

"  I  never  saw  her  but  once — at  a  concert  with 
Sunderland.     She  is  a  handsome  brunette,  with  a 


"LOVE   THE   GIFT   IS  LOVE   TIIE   DEBT."     103 

marked  air  of  style,  but  no  great  degree  of  intel- 
lect in  her  face." 

There  is  silence  for  a  few  minutes  ;  then  Flora 
says  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Do  not  be  vexed  with  me  if 
I  tell  you  now,  instead  of  to-morrow,  what  I  sj^oke 
of  this  morning.  I  have  thought  it  all  over,  and 
it  is  best.  You  say  that  you  only  ask  permission 
to  try  and  win  my  heart.  But  I  must  make  you 
understand  that  I  should  be  wrong  if  I  gave  you 
this  peiTuission  ;  and  I  can  only  make  you  under- 
stand this  by  telling  you  frankly  that  I  gave  my 
heart  away  long  ago,  before  I  ever  saw  you." 

Charlton's  own  heart  gives  a  great  throb,  and 
then  seems  to  stand  still  for  a  moment.  "  I  feared 
it !  "  he  says  to  himself.  Somehow  he  knows  that 
he  has  felt  a  foreboding  of  this  all  along. 

Flora  goes  on  quickly— ^perhaps  she  does  not 
wish  any  reply.  "  No  one  was  to  blame,"  she  says, 
"  and  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  suffered  except 
myself ;  and  one's  own  pain  does  not  matter. 
That  can  be  borne  easily  enough.  But  to  cause 
pain  to  others — it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  never 
forgive  myself  if  I  did  that  knowingly,  or  even 
carelessly.  It  was  not  Harry's  fault — I  never 
thought  so  for  a  moment — " 

"  Harry  ! "  says  Charlton.  He  is  thunder- 
struck. "Do  you  mean,"  he  says,  breathlessly, 
"  that  it  is  Sunderland  for  whom  you  care  ?  Good 
Heavens  !  what  have  I — " 

"  Done  ?  "  he  would  have  added,  but  stops  him- 


104  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

self  in  time.  Even  in  the  midst  of  his  surprise 
and  bewilderment,  he  feels  instinctively  that  he 
must  not  let  her  suspect  in  what  manner  Sunder- 
land has  spoken  of  her  to  him,  nor  what  a  mission 
was  laid  on  him  when  he  came  to  Transylvania. 

The  half  darkness  conceals  the  blush  which 
rises  to  Flora's  face  ;  yet  she  speaks  bravely. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Harry.  I  learned  to  care  for  him 
so  long  ago — or  I  never  learned,  it  seemed  to  be  a 
natural  instinct  with  me — that  I  do  not  think  I 
shall  ever  be  able  to  put  it  away  from  me.  At  least 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  care  for  any  one  else  in  the 
same  manner." 

"  But  on  that  evening  of  which  I  spoke  a  min- 
ute ago,  you  told  me  that  Sunderland  was  not 
your  lover,"  says  Charlton. 

"  He  never  was,"'she  answers,  simply,  "  but  I 
thought  at  one  time  that  he  might  be.  It  was 
natural ;  I  cannot  blame  myself.  He  was  very 
fond  of  me,  and  I  was  too  young  to  draw  distinc- 
tions. I  was  never  so  happy  as  here  on  this 
mountain  two  years  ago  ;  but  he  went  away — and 
never  came  back.     So  it  was  all  a  mistake." 

The  proud,  tender  voice  ends  abruptly,  and 
silence  falls.  For  what  can  Charlton  say  ?  Can 
he  tell  her  that  it  was  not  a  mistake,  and  that 
Sunderland,  nevertheless,  has  forgotten  her  ?  He 
feels  that  such  a  revelation  can  serve  no  good 
purpose.  What  has  he  done  ?  Might  he  have 
brought  happiness  to  this  constant  heart,  and  has 


"LOVE   THE   GIFT  IS  LOVE  THE  DEBT."     105 

he  ignorantly  and  presumptuously  turned  it  away  ? 
Is  it  too  late  even  yet  ?  As  if  she  read  his  thoughts, 
Flora  speaks. 

"  That  is  all,"  she  says.  "  I  have  given  you 
confession  for  confession,  and  we  will  never  speak 
of  the  subject  again.  I  am  very,  very  sorry  that 
you  should  care  for  me,  but  I  hope  it  will  prove  a 
fancy  which  will  soon  pass  away.  In  order  that 
it  may  do  so,  I  have  told  you  what  no  one  else 
ever  heard  from  me." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness  or  your 
confidence,"  he  says  in  a  low  voice.  "  If  I  could 
serve  your  happiness  in  any  way,  believe  me  I 
should  not  think  of  myself." 

"  But  you  cannot !  "  she  says,  quickly.  "  Re- 
member, you  have  given  me  your  faith.  You  can 
never  repeat  to  any  one  what  I  have  told  you." 

"  I  could  cut  out  my  heart  sooner  than  repeat 
one  word  of  it,"  he  says — so  earnestly  that  her 
fears  are  set  at  rest.  "But  you  are  mistaken 
when  you  talk  of  my  love  for  you  being  a  fancy 
that  may  soon  pass  away.  It  is  a  passion  which 
will  endure.  But  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  be  sorry  for  this.  I  am  not.  It  is  no 
little  thinsc  to  love  a  woman  who  is  worth  remem- 
bering.  And  then  I  have  your  friendship.  That 
is  very  much." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  says  Flora.  She  is 
much  relieved  by  this  quietude.  It  is  something 
new  in  her  experience  of  love  affairs,  but  more 


106  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

agreeable  than  any  amount  of  passion  or  pleading. 
Silence  falls  again.  They  hear  the  wind  sighing 
softly  among  the  trees  at  their  feet ;  for  the  forest 
here,  as  everywhere,  clothes  the  precipitous  moun- 
tain. From  the  hotel  behind,  gay  tones  and 
laughter  float  out  on  the  night.  Life  is  full  of 
such  contrasts.  As  two  voices  suddenly  rise  in 
song,  Charlton  says  :  "  Don't  let  me  keep  you  any 
longer.     The  night-air  is  very  chilly." 


CHAPTER   X. 

"some  theee  be  that  shadows  kiss." 

After  he  has  parted  with  Flora  at  the  door  of 
the  hotel,  Charlton  takes  his  way  to  the  Head, 
lighting  a  cigar  as  he  goes.  He  has  much  to  con- 
sider, and  he  feels  that  he  can  best  command  his 
thoughts  in  the  unbroken  solitude  of  Nature.  He 
finds  the  point  altogether  deserted.  The  brilliant 
moonlight  brings  out  boldly  every  escarpment  of 
the  cliff,  and  near  its  verge  he  throws  himself  care- 
lessly down.  Lying  there  with  the  pure  fresh  air 
around  him,  the  hyacinth  heaven  above,  and  the 
vague,  far-reaching  world,  flooded  with  silver  mist, 
below,  he  gives  himself  up  to  reflections  which  are 
by  no  means  pleasant. 

Not  reflections  on  his  own  failure.      This  is 


"SOME  THERE   BE   THAT   SHADOWS  KISS."  107 

something  which  he  puts  aside,  with  the  calmness 
of  one  to  whom  Hfe  has  brought  many  disappoint- 
ments. People  grow  accustomed  to  all  things — 
even  to  failure — after  a  while,  and  Charlton's  ex- 
perience is  rather  more  of  failure  than  success. 
Once  before  he  had  set  his  heart  on  a  woman,  and 
she  gave  him  much  the  same  answer  which  Flora 
has  given  to-night — an  answer  less  gentle  but  not 
less  decided.  In  many  ways  and  at  many  different 
times  he  has  learned  that  to  him  do  not  fall  the 
prizes  reserved  for  the  curled  darlings  of  fortune. 
This,  therefore,  is  only  another  example  of  that 
fact.  He  accepts  it,  and  turns  his  attention  to  the 
other  aspect  of  the  matter — that  which  concerns 
Flora. 

lie  sees  now  the  error  into  which  he  has  led 
Sunderland,  but  he  does  not  perceive  with  any- 
thing like  equal  clearness  how  this  error  is  to  be 
corrected,  or  what  possible  good  can  result  from 
its  correction.  Flora  has  learned  from  others 
besides  himself — has  been  warned,  indeed,  by 
her  own  instinct — of  Sunderland's  inconstancy. 
Would  she  be  likely,  under  these  circumstances, 
to  accept  the  latter  if  he  were  to  offer  himself  ? 
Charlton  feels  that  he  knows  enough  of  her  char- 
acter to  answer  this  question  in  the  negative.  But 
if  in  the  first  instance  he  had  read  more  correctly 
the  riddle  which  he  was  set  to  solve,  would  mat- 
ters have  been  different  then  ?  Perhaps — only 
perhaps — so.    Sunderland  might  have  relinquished 


108  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

his  suit  with  Miss  Preston  and  returned  to  Tran- 
sylvania ;  but  Charlton  is  very  doubtful. 

"  At  all  events,  I  am  glad  that  I  did  not  know 
the  truth  when  I  ^vi'ote  to  him ! "  he  mutters. 
And  with  this  decision  jealousy  has  little  or 
nothing  to  do.  lie  feels  keenly  how  deeply  Flora 
would  have  been  wronged  if  a  sense  of  honor 
alone  had  brought  her  cousin  back  to  her.  His 
blood  stirs  hotly  at  the  mere  imagination  of  such 
a  thing.  If  he  had  not  grown  to  love  her — if  she 
was  merely  to  him  the  graceful,  tender  girl  who 
had  pleased  his  taste  and  awakened  his  interest 
when  they  first  met — ^he  would  still  regard  this  as 
a  desecration.  JVow  he  feels  that  he  could  sooner 
leap  over  the  verge  on  which  he  stands  than  suffer 
Sunderland  to  suspect  what  place  he  carelessly 
won  in  the  loyal  heart  that  has  not  learned  the 
lesson  of  facile  forgetting. 

So  much  for  the  past.  With  regard  to  the 
future,  he  marks  out  a  programme  for  himself 
very  decidedly  and  clearly.  He  will  trouble  Flora 
by  no  further  allusion  to  the  confession  so  untow- 
ardly  made  to-day  ;  and  he  will  shorten  his  stay 
in  Transylvania  as  much  as  possible,  so  that  in  a 
few  weeks  at  furthest  he  can  turn  his  back  on 
Arcadia,  leaving  forever  behind  the  fair  pastoral 
region  in  which  for  a  little  while  he  has  forgotten 
the  roar  and  strife  of  the  world  beyond  these 
blue  mountains. 

While  he  reflects  in  this  manner,  and  Flora, 


"SOME  THERE  BE  THAT  SHADOWS  KISS."  109 

sitting  at  her  chamber  window,  watches  with  half- 
absent  eyes  the  great  sea  of  silver  mist  stretching 
away  to  infinite  distance,  Miss  Dnpont  is  engaged 
in  writ  in  2:  a  letter  to  her  friend  iMiss  Preston. 
After  relating  how  she  chances  to  be  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Western  Carolina,  she  touches  lightly  on 
the  attractions  of  Caesar's  Head,  and  finally  sums 
up  in  this  manner  : 

"  Fancy  whom  I  have  just  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  !  No  other  persons  than  the  uncle  and 
cousin  of  your  admirer  and  sj^ecial  subject,  Harry 
Sunderland.  The  uncle  is  the  ordinary  old  gentle- 
man ;  the  cousin  is  lovely,  in  a  fair  gentle  style 
that  has  no  chic  or  sparkle  in  it,  but  is  attractive, 
nevertheless.  Mr.  Charlton,  the  writer,  is  here  in 
her  train,  and  seems  to  engross  all  her  attention. 
A  communicative  young  gentleman  who  was  intro- 
duced to  me  this  evening — Brandon,  I  think,  by 
name — told  me  that  Mr.  Charlton's  devotion  is 
most  marked^  and  that  Miss  Tyrrell  seems  to 
respond  to  it  very  kindly.  I  should  like  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  a  man  who  writes  essays  ;  but 
after  having  spent  some  time  with  3Iiss  Tyrrell 
watching  the  moon  rise,  he  brought  her  back  to 
the  hotel  and  strolled  oft"  alone — unal)lej  I  suppose, 
to  endure  any  other  society  after  hers.  Probably 
I  shall  see  him  to-mon-ow  and  be  able  to  tell  in 
what  degree  an  essayist  is  like  other  people." 

Much  more  than  this  the  letter  contains — 
especially  some  inquiries  into  Miss  Preston's  rcla- 


110  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

tions  with  the  aforesaid  Harry  Sunderland — but 
the  above  extract  is  all  that  need  be  given  to  the 
public.  After  the  ej^istle  is  finished,  signed,  sealed, 
and  directed,  Miss  Dupont  calmly  consigns  her- 
self to  her  couch  and  sleeps  the  sleep  of  innocence. 

The  next  morning  this  young  lady  has  an  op- 
portunity to  learn  how  much  an  essayist  is  like 
other  people.  Charlton  is  presented  to  her,  and 
does  not  make  a  very  pleasant  impression.  He  is 
never  discourteous,  but  on  occasions  he  can  be 
distinctly  disagreeable.  This  is  one  of  the  occa- 
sions, for  few  things  interest  him  less  than  the 
empty  chatter  of  a  society  woman.  He  escapes 
as  soon  as  possible,  pleading  an  engagement  to 
join  a  hunting  party  who  are  going  down  to  Buck 
Forest  in  search  of  deer. 

Later  in  the  day  the  Dupont  party  leave  Cae- 
sar's Head.  Colonel  Tyrrell  regrets  courteously 
that  he  is  not  at  home,  so  that  he  might  entertain 
them.  "We  can  at  least  look  at  your  place  in 
passing,"  says  Adele,  graciously.  "  I  have  heard 
Mr.  Sunderland  talk  so  often  of  its  beautiful 
situation." 

"You  must  do  more  than  look  at  it  in  pass- 
ing," said  Flora.  "You  must  go  in  and  see  the 
view  of  the  vallev  from  the  front." 

"  We  should  enjoy  it  more  if  you  were  there 
to  point  out  all  its  beauties  to  us,"  says  one  of  the 
gentlemen,  gallantly. 

But  it  is  doubtful  whether  Flora  is  soiTy  that 


"SOME   THERE   BE   THAT   SHADOWS  KISS."  HI 

slie  will  not  be  there.  Miss  Dupont  and  herself  own 
little  in  common  ;  and  there  is  something  in  the 
fact  that  the  former  belongs  to  that  world  which 
has  separated  Sunderland  so  widely  from  his  old 
friends  that  makes  Flora,  despite  her  utmost  ef- 
forts to  the  contrary,  regard  her  with  a  sentiment 
approaching  to  dislike.  She  is  vexed  with  herself 
for  feeling  in  this  manner  ;  but  to  feel  differently 
is  quite  out  of  her  power.  It  is  a  relief  when  the 
last  compliments  are  exchanged,  the  Dupont  party 
gone,  and  she  is  at  liberty  to  take  a  book  and  go 
out  on  the  rocks. 

She  finds  without  difficulty  a  nook  where  she 
is  not  likely  to  be  disturbed — a  craggy  point  of 
the  great  precipice,  like  that  on  which  she  was  en- 
throned the  day  before,  with  Charlton  lying  at 
her  feet.  The  immense  expanse  of  the  wide  and 
beautiful  prospect  seems  to  sink  on  the  spirit  with 
a  charm  which  can  never  be  forijotten.  Yet  at 
present  she  is  scarcely  conscious  of  it  in  any  ac- 
tive sense.  Her  mind  is  full  of  other  thouirhts. 
Her  hands  are  lightly  folded  over  the  book  in  her 
lap  ;  her  eyes  gaze  at  the  remote  limit  of  the 
scene,  where  land  and  skv  l)lend  in  ocean-like 
mist  ;  her  lips  are  closed  with  a  tense  expression, 
significant  of  pain.     She  is 

"  .  .  .  .  telling  her  memories  over 
As  you  tell  your  beads," 

and  not  gathering  a  great  deal  of  profit  or  pleas- 
ure therefrom. 


112  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

How  well  she  remembers  those  summer  days 
two  years  ago,  which  she  spent  here  with  Sunder- 
land ! — how  every  sight  and  sound  recalls  his 
frank,  handsome  face  !  She  can  almost  fancy 
that  all  the  lapse  of  intermediate  time  is  a  dream, 
and  that  she  will  start  suddenly  to  hear  his  voice 
ringing  over  the  mountain-side  in  the  hunters' 
chorus  from  "Der  Freischiitz,"  which  he  liked 
so  much  and  sang  so  well.  Yet  she  knoAVS  that 
the  pleasant  music  of  that  voice  is  far  away — 
sounding,  perhaps,  under  the  tamarac  trees  of  dis- 
tant Canada,  or  on  the  blue  waters  of  the  great 
lakes.  The  green  Carolina  heights,  the  semi- 
tropical  magnificence  of  the  wild  Carolina  for- 
ests, have  not  heard  its  cadence  in  many  days  ; 
and  the  tender,  pathetic  eyes,  sweeping  wistfully 
the  verge  of  the  horizon,  look  in  vain  for  the 
presence  that  comes  not. 

But  Flora's  thoughts  are  not  altogether,  nor 
chiefly,  retrospective.  Do  what  she  will,  Charl- 
ton's words  sound  in  her  ears,  and  she  finds  her- 
self questioning  constantly  whether  she  was  right 
or  wrong  in  answering  them  as  she  did  last  night. 
Need  she  have  told  to  this  stranger  the  secret  of 
her  heart — the  secret  which  even  to  herself  she 
scarcely  ever  put  in  words  before  ?  She  could 
not  tell  another  person,  she  can  scarcely  intelligi- 
bly set  before  herself  why  she  did  so.  In  truth 
an  overmastering  sense  of  the  hardness  and  cru- 
elty of  life  came  to  her — a  sudden  sad  realization 


"SOME   THERE   BE   THAT  SHADOWS   KISS."  113 

of  how  many  precious  tilings  are  wasted,  love  for 
which  no  one  cares,  faith  that  is  betrayed,  hope 
that  sickens  unto  slow  death.  Her  own  misplaced 
affection  was  nothing — so  she  would  have  said  ; 
but  for  Charlton  to  set  his  heart  on  her  and  suffer 
through  her — that  seemed  more  than  she  could 
bear  !  Most  women  would  not  have  thought  it 
necessary  to  say  more  than  simply,  "  I  do  not  love 
you,"  but  the  impulse  of  candor  made  Flora  add 
why  she  did  not  love. 

Xow,  thinking  it  all  over,  she  cannot  be  sorry 
that  she  yielded  to  that  impulse.  To  feel  that 
one's  feet  are  planted  on  the  truth  is  always — in 
little  or  great  affairs — a  sustaining  consciousness. 
Let  the  worst  come,  we  can  face  it  fairly  then, 
with  unstained  rectitude  and  conscience  at  rest. 
There  is  no  room  for  misapprehension,  for  doubt, 
for  self-rej^roach,  when  all  mists  of  concealment 
have  been  swept  away.  "  lie  has  given  me  a  great 
deal,"  Flora  says  to  herself,  thinking  of  Charlton. 
"  The  truth  is  none  too  much  to  give  him  in  re- 
turn." Besides  this,  she  has  an  intuitive  con- 
sciousness that  the  man  to  whom  she  spoke  that 
truth  can  be  trusted  to  the  uttermost  extremity. 
He  makes  no  pretensions  whatever,  he  is  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  profess  that  he  would  go 
to  the  stake  sooner  than  betray  a  trust  deliber- 
ately given  to  him,  but  nevertheless  she  feels  that 
this  is  so.  Under  his  quiet  manner  she  has  read 
his  character  with  perfect  accuracy.  She  knows 
8 


114  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

that  her  secret  is  safe  ;  and  in  the  first  glance  of 
his  eyes,  the  first  tones  of  his  voice  when  they  met 
this  morning,  she  saw  that  her  friend  was  still  her 
friend — that  he  spoke  truly  when  he  said  that  he 
had  little  of  that  vanity  which  makes  most  men 
resent  as  a  grievous  insult,  as  well  as  a  grievous 
wrong,  such  an  answer  as  she  had  given. 

It  is  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  be- 
fore the  hunting  party  return.  They  are  flushed 
with  success,  and  bear  its  spoils.  Charlton  brings 
to  Flora  a  pair  of  antlers  taken  from  the  head  of 
a  stag.  "  It  was  the  first  deer  I  have  been  lucky 
enough  to  get  a  shot  at,"  he  says.  "I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  him  as  he  paused  for  a  moment 
opposite  my  stand  !  I  almost  hated  to  pull  the 
trigger.  What  an  excellent  thing  callousness  is, 
is  it  not?" 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  says  Flora.  "  It 
would  spare  us  some  pain,  no  doubt ;  but  would 
you  not  rather  suffer  more  pain  than  to  care  as 
little  for  the  pain  of  others  as  some  people  do  ?  " 

"But  there  is  a  kind  of  sentimentality  that 
one  falls  into  if  one  is  not  careful.  Stags,  for  in- 
stance, were  made  to  be  shot ;  yet  I  felt  almost 
like  a  murderer  when  that  creature  leaped  up  with 
his  death- wound." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  says  Flora,  smiling,  yet  laying 
her  hand  gently  on  the  branching  antlers.  "  These 
shall  be  hung  in  the  hall  at  home,"  she  goes  on. 
"Thank  you  for  bringing  them  to  me." 


"SOME   THERE  BE  THAT   SHADOWS  KISS."  115 

"  I  wisli  it  was  the  tuft  of  feathers  from  the 
breast  of  the  golden  eagle,  which  is  valued  so 
highly  in  the  Tyrol," 'he  answers.  "Then  you 
might  wear  it  in  your  hat  as  a  souvenir  of  a  sum- 
mer which  I  shall  mark  with  white  in  the  history 
of  my  life.  It  might  serve  to  remind  you  of  me 
after  I  am  gone." 

"  I  shall  not  need  anything  to  remind  me  of 
you,"  she  says,  lifting  her  eyes  frankly.  "  I  never 
forget  a  friend.  We,  too,  will  mark  with  white 
the  pleasant  summer  days  you  have  spent  with 
us." 

"  How  I  shall  think  of  you  in  the  winter,"  he 
says,  quickly,  "  and  try  to  picture  the  valley  and 
the  mountains  covered  with  snow  and  wrapped  in 
mist  !  I  entertain  serious  fears,  indeed,  that  my 
life  for  some  time  to  come  will  be  set  to  the  re- 
frain of  '  My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I 
go.'" 

"  Then  you  must  come  back  to  the  Highlands 
as  soon  as  possible,"  says  Flora  ;  and  she  does  not 
consider  how  little  this  is  likely,  till  her  com- 
panion's silence,  and  a  subtile  shade  falling  over 
his  face,  tells  her  so. 

The  next  day  they  bid  adieu  to  Ca?sar's  Head, 
look  their  last  on  the  beauty  of  its  fair  prospect, 
feel  for  the  last  time  the  breeze  which  seems  to 
come  from  no  nearer  distance  than  the  curl  in  g: 
waves  of  the  vast  Atlantic,  drink  to  their  return 
in  the  clear,  sparkling  water  of  the  Cold  Spring, 


116  A  SUMMER  IDYL, 

shake  hands  for  the  last  time  with  their  genial 
host,  and  turn  their  horses'  heads  toward  the  Tran- 
sylvania valley.  • 


CHAPTER  XI. 

''westward    ho!" 

Never  did  this  fairest  of  all  valleys  seem  more 
beautiful  than  as  they  saw  its  pastoral  loveliness 
spread  before  them  in  the  westering  light  and  long 
shadows  of  late  afternoon,  its  frame  of  graceful 
mountains  wearing  their  purest  tints  in  the  trans- 
parent atmosphere,  and  the  bright  river  winding 
through  the  green  breadths  of  its  fertile  lowlands. 

"  After  all,  we  have  seen  nothing  so  beautiful 
as  this  ! "  says  Charlton,  turning  to  Flora.  "  It 
would  be  impossible  for  the  soft  and  the  bold  to 
be  mingled  more  admirably  than  they  are  mingled 
here.  Absolutely  the  scene  is  so  perfect  that 
there  is  nothing  left  to  desire." 

"Z  think  so,"  replies  Flora,  with  a  tender  light 
in  her  eyes,  "  but  I  have  always  feared  that  I  Avas 
partial  through  affection.  Yet  many  other  people 
have  said  that  the  Transylvania  valley  is  the 
loveliest  in  the  mountains." 

"  I  am  sure  it  must  be,"  says  Charlton  ;  "  but 
I  mean  to  improve  my  knowledge  of  other  valleys, 
and  so  be  able  to  speak  with  more  authority.  Did  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  pledged  to  go  with  Mr.  Bran- 


"WESTWARD   nO!"  117 

don  to  the  west — through  all  the  conntry  over 
which  we  have  journeyed  on  the  map  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Charlton,"  cries  Minnie,  before  Flora 
can  speak,  "  is  it  possible  you  are  really  going  to 
leave  us  and  go  so  far  as  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  desolated,  as  a  Frenchman  would  say, 
at  the  thought  of  leaving  you,"  says  Charlton, 
smiling  ;  "  but  I  am  also  glad  of  an  opportunity 
to  make  the  tour  under  the  conduct  of  such  a  com- 
petent guide  as  I  am  sure  Mr.  Brandon  will  prove." 

"  I,  too,  am  sorry  to  lose  you  even  for  a  time," 
says  Flora,  "  but  I  am  glad  that  you  are  going. 
I  want  you  to  see  as  much  as  possible  of  the  coun- 
try. Then  some  time,  perhaps,  you  may  write  a 
story  of  your  travels  that  will  tell  people  how 
beautiful  it  is." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  that," 
he  answers.  "  The  country  has  won  my  heart  so 
completely  that  I  should  scarcely  know  how  to  at- 
tempt describing  it.  A  man  cannot  paint  when  a 
glamour  is  over  his  eyes." 

He  wonders,  while  he  speaks,  if  it  is  this  gla- 
mour which  makes  the  valley  into  which  they 
have  now  fairly  descended  seem  so  lovely  to  him. 
Tlie  crystal  river,  with  many  a  swirl  and  rapid, 
Hows  swiftly  by  under  its  vine-draped  trees,  hast- 
ening from  its  far  birthplace  among  the  peaks  of 
the  great  Balsam,  and  gathering  strength  with 
every  mile,  to  thunder  a  little  later  through  its 
splendid  gorge  down  to  Tennessee.     On  each  side 


118  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

stretch  the  cultivated  lands  bearing  their  rich  har- 
vest. Over  the  wide  fields  of  rustling  corn  the 
sunlight  rests  like  a  mantle  of  gold,  and  streams 
in  serene  glory  on  the  eastern  hills,  while  deep 
shadows  steal  over  the  land  from  the  western 
heights.  There  is  a  fragrance  of  sweetbrier  and 
clematis  on  the  air.  Freshness  and  repose  are  in 
every  sight  and  sound.  It  is  like  an  enchanted 
land  into  which  pain  and  care  might  never  enter. 

When  they  reach  home  they  are  welcomed  vo- 
ciferously by  all  the  household.  The  airy  house 
seems  to  receive  them  kindly.  "  It  is  worth  while 
going  away  if  only  to  come  back,"  says  Minnie. 
Charlton  feels  the  charm  of  return  as  strongly  as 
any  one — perhaps,  indeed,  more  strongly,  since  to 
the  others  this  is  their  home  from  which,  in  the 
natural  course  of  events,  they  need  fear  no  exile, 
while  to  him  it  is  only  a  place  of  brief  sojourn, 
which  he  must  soon  leave  behind,  probably  never 
to  see  again.  He  cannot  restrain  a  slight  sigh  as 
he  enters  the  pleasant  chamber  that  has  grown  to 
have  so  familiar  an  aspect  to  his  eyes.  Just  now 
the  sunset  radiance  is  filling  it  with  light ;  the  net- 
work of  shade  outside  the  windows  is  shot  with 
gold ;  the  river  is  murmuring  below ;  soft  green 
hills  are  scarce  a  stone's-throw  away  ;  westward 
the  violet  peaks  stand,  height  upon  height  and 
range  behind  range,  against  a  sky  ablaze  with 
glory. 

"  And  I  must  leave  it  all !     The  sooner  the 


"WESTWARD  nO!"  119 

better,"  he  thinks.  "  What  a  fool  I  have  been  to 
suffer  myself  to  take  root  so  deeply  !  As  if  a  life 
could  be  all  a  summer  holiday,  or  as  if  such  a 
haven  of  Arcadia  is  likely  to  be  found  more  than 
once  in  one's  journey  through  it  !  " 

The  charm  of  Arcadia  is  soon  to  be  broken  in 
more  ways  than  one.  Charlton  discovers  this  at 
the  tea-table,  when  Colonel  Tyrrell  tells  his  daugh- 
ter that  he  has  found  amonc:  his  letters  one  from 
an  old  friend,  saying  that  he  will  be  in  Brevard 
the  next  day  with  a  large  party.  "  We  must  go 
over  and  bring  them  here,"  that  hospitable  gen- 
tleman goes  on.  "The  ladies  may  stay  several 
days.  They  talk  of  remaining  in  Transylvania 
while  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  "go  west  to  Hay- 
wood and  Jackson." 

"  I  hope  the  ladies  are  not  very  formidable," 
says  Flora.  "If  they  are  like  Miss  Dupont,  I 
don't  know  how  they  can  be  amused." 

"Take  'em  in  the  woods,  Floy,  and  have  a 
g}7)sy  supper,"  suggests  Nellie,  to  whom  this  is 
the  7ie  plus  ultra  of  enjoyment. 

After  tea.  Flora  is  sent  to  the  piano  by  her 
father.  Contrarv  to  his  usual  habit,  Charlton  fol- 
lows  her  into  the  room,  and  draws  a  chair  near 
the  instrument.  He  does  not  say  so,  but  he  feels 
that  this  is  a  farewell  to  the  idyllic  life  he  has 
been  leading.  To-morrow  evening  those  people 
who  are  coming  will  be  here  ;  the  next  evening 
he  will  be  gone,  and  when  he  returns  it  will  only 


120  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

be  to  say  farewell  and  go — not  to  return.  Hence 
he  declines  to-night  to  join  the  smokers  on  the 
piazza,  and,  sitting  in  the  half -shaded  room,  lis- 
tens, with  a  sense  of  mingled  pain  and  pleasure, 
to  the  sweet  voice  that  sings  the  plaintive  Irish 
melodies  Colonel  Tyrrell  chiefly  likes. 

After  this  they  go  out  on  the  lawn — for  the 
summer  night  is  full  of  fresh,  cool  sweetness — 
and  while  the  river  sings  its  mystical  refrain  to 
the  silent  earth,  and  the  dew  brings  out  innumer- 
able odors  that  are  never  perceived  by  day,  they 
talk  and  watch  the  moon  rise  in  silvery  majesty 
over  the  eastern  hills. 

Charlton  has  himself  well  in  hand,  and  Flora 
does  not  suspect  that  under  his  self-control  a  fire 
is  burning  which  would  startle  her  if  she  knew  of 
its  existence.  He  knows  it,  and,  conscious  that 
every  hour  of  this  association  is  to  be  paid  for — 
and  paid  heavily — in  future  pain,  he  is  in  a  meas- 
ure anxious  to  end  it.  "  The  calm  necessary  for 
the  intellectual  life  "  had,  as  he  said  himself,  al- 
ways seemed  to  him  the  most  desirable  thing  in 
existence  ;  and  he  is  perfectly  aware  that,  if  he 
tarries  here  much  longer,  that  calm  will  be  hope- 
lessly gone,  to  be  recovered — who  can  say  when  ? 

Reasonably,  therefore,  he  should  not  be  sorry 
when  it  is  time  to  say  good-night ;  yet,  to  Flora's 
surprise,  he  does  not  content  himself  with  the 
simple  salutation,  but  takes  her  hand  and  holds  it 
for  a  moment. 


"WESTWARD   HO!"  121 

*'  This  is  the  end,"  he  says,  "  of  all  our  pleas- 
ant evenings.  I  am  very  sorry,  and  yet  you  must 
let  me  thank  you  for  them.  I  can  never  forget 
all  your  kindness.  I  shall  remember  it  as  long 
as  I  remember  you — and  how  long  that  will  be, 
God  only  knows.  I  fear  I  shall  never  forget 
you." 

He  certainly  did  not  mean  to  say  anything 
like  this  when  he  began  to  speak  ;  but  the  tongue 
is  at  best  an  unruly  member,  and  just  now  it  has 
spoken  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  heart.  Flora 
does  not  di'aw  away  her  hand  ;  she  only  looks  at 
him  with  something  very  gentle  and  pathetic  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  talk  of  this  being  our  last  even- 
ing ? "  she  asks,  ignoring  the  latter  part  of  his 
speech.  "  You  are  going  away,  it  is  true,  but  you 
will  come  back,  and  we  shall  be  as  good  friends 
as  ever,  shall  we  not  ?  You  will  not  forsake  us, 
you  will  not  go  away,  Mr.  Charlton,  because — be- 
cause I  have  been  unfortunate  enough  to  give  you 
a  little  pain  ?  " 

It  is  difficult  to  express  the  sweetness  and  en- 
treaty in  these  last  words.  The  delicate  face  is 
lifted,  the  frank  eyes  meet  his  with  no  shadow  of 
self-consciousness  in  their  depths.  She  knows  the 
world  so  little,  she  does  not  for  a  moment  imagine 
that  she  should  not  ask  the  man  whom  she  has  re- 
jected to  stay  on  the  familiar  footing  of  a  friend. 
But  Charlton  does  not  misinterpret  her.     He  is 


122  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

aware  that  no  impulse  of  coquetry,  no  tcfidresse 
for  himself,  prompted  those  simple,  kindly  words. 
It  was  out  of  the  fullness  of  her  heart  also  that 
Flora  sj^oke. 

"  I  shall  come  back — yes,"  he  answers  ;  "  but 
it  will  be  only  to  say  good-by.  You  must  not 
blame  yourself  for  my  departure.  I  am  not  churl- 
ish enough,  nor  rich  enough  in  such  gifts,  to  re- 
fuse your  friendship  because  1  cannot  win  your 
love.  On  the  contrary,  I  prize  it  very  highly — 
more  highly  than  you  can  imagine.  But  my  holi- 
day is  nearly  ended.  I  must  go — I  should  go  in 
any  event.  I  shall  never  forget  my  summer  in 
Transylvania,  however,  and  you  are  right  in  think- 
ing that  we  shall  always  be  very  good  friends." 

The  courage  with  w^hich  he  bears  himself,  the 
determination  to  spare  her  any  possible  self-re- 
proach, touches  Flora.  "  You  are  very  kind,"  she 
says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  shall  never  forget  how 
kind — how  considerate." 

"  Floy,  are  you  still  on  the  piazza  ?  "  says  Colo- 
nel Tyrrell's  voice  in  the  hall.  "  You  had  better 
come  in,  my  dear.     It  is  growing  late." 

"Yes,  papa,"  answers  Flora.  "Good-night," 
she  says  to  Charlton  ;  and,  with  his  clasp  still 
lingering  on  her  hand,  she  passes  into  the  hall, 
kisses  her  father,  and  goes  up-stau's. 

The  next  day  the  party  of  tourists  are  brought 
by  Colonel  Tyrrell  and  Flora  from  Brevard,  and 
the  day  after  that  a  party  of  gentlemen,  of  whom 


"WESTWARD   110  !"  123 

Charlton  is  one,  take  their  departure  for  tlie  re- 
mote west. 

To  follow  their  line  of  march,  and  record  all 
the  adventures,  hardships,  and  pleasures  which  till 
the  next  six  days,  would  require  the  pen  of  Defoe 
at  least,  and  Avould  iill  a  volume  in  itself.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  the  majority  of  the  party  return, 
unaccompanied  by  Charlton  or  George.  Their 
absence  is  explained  by  the  two  following  epistles: 

"Franklin,  September  10th. 
"  My  Dear  Colonel  Tyrrell  :  Taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  kind  permission  you  gave  me  at 
parting  to  keep  Bayard  as  long  as  I  like,  I  have 
decided  to  accompany  Brandon  still  farther.  To- 
morrow we  start  for  Cherokee.  It  is  difficult — 
indeed  impossible — to  give  any  idea  of  the  wild 
magnificence  of  the  scenery  here  ;  but  you  may 
tell  Miss  Tyrrell  that  I  have  seen  nothing  which 
charms  me  so  much  as  Transylvania.  The  valley 
of  the  iSTantahala  is  beautiful,  and  the  gorge  of 
the  same  unspeakably  grand  ;  but  man  has  done 
much  to  spoil  it,  while  man  has  only  adorned 
Transylvania.  I  cannot  tell  when  I  shall  return 
— probably  not  for  ten  days.  With  warmest  re- 
gards to  all  the  household,  believe  me 
"  Most  truly  yours, 

"  Geoffrey  Charlton." 

Epistle  No,  2  was  indited  at  the  same  time 
and  from  the  same  place  : 


124  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

"  Dear  Papa  :  We  got  here  last  night,  tired 
out,  I  can  tell  you.  "We've  had  splendid  luck  in 
hunting,  though,  and  I  like  roughing  it  first-rate. 
I  shouldn't  mind  being  a  hunter  all  the  time,  ex- 
cept in  winter.  We've  had  some  of  the  moun- 
taineers with  us  all  the  time,  and  such  tales  as 
they  tell  !  —  you  never  heard  the  like  !  Tell 
Oscar  to  tell  Tom  Fanshaw  when  he  sees  him 
that  he'll  he  sorry  to  the  last  day  of  his  life  he 
didn't  come  on  this  trip,  and  that  when  I  get  back 
I'll  open  his  eyes  for  him  with  some  of  the  tough- 
est bear-stories  he  ever  heard. 

"Mr.  Charlton  isn't  going  back  with  the 
others.  Since  I  came  with  him,  I  suppose  of 
course  you'll  wish  me  to  go  on  with  him.  The 
horses  hold  out  first-rate,  and  we  haven't  had  but 
one  rainy  day  since  we  started.  Then  we  were 
out  on  the  mountains,  and  it  soaked  us  through. 

"  Brandon  says  he  can't  tell  exactly  when  we 
can  get  back — it  depends  on  the  roads  and  the 
horses,  and  a  hundred  other  things.  There's  no 
use  in  waiting  when  the  mails  are  so  uncertain  ; 
so  you  may  expect  us  when  you  see  us.  Love  to 
everybody,  and  tell  Floy  this  isn't  half  so  pretty 
a  country  as  ours. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  George  Tyrrell." 

"  That  scamp  knew  perfectly  well  that  he 
ought  to  have  come  back,"  says  Colonel  Tyrrell, 


"WESTWARD  HO!"  125 

handing  this  characteristic  missive  to  his  daugh- 
ter, whose  eye  has  by  tliis  time  traveled  to  the 
end  of  the  page  tilled  Avith  Charlton's  clear  black 
writing.  "  But  there's  a  good  deal  of  sagacity  in 
his  pretending  to  take  for  granted  that  what  he 
wanted  to  do  was  the  proper  thing  to  do." 

"  Perhaps  he  honestly  thought  that  he  ought 
to  remain  Avith  Mr.  Charlton,"  says  Flora,  smiling. 
*•"  It  is  quite  true  that  he  went  with  him." 

"  What  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  boy  !  "  says  Min- 
nie, enviously.  "  How  I  wish  I  was  in  George's 
place  !  " 

The  day  after  the  return  of  the  hunters  the 
party  of  visitors  leave,  and  then  blankness  and 
dullness  settle  heavily  on  the  Tyi-rell  household. 
There  is  no  mode  of  escaping  or  throwing  off  the 
sense  of  ennui  which  envelops  them  like  a  cloud. 
Minnie  is  bored  to  the  point  of  desperation,  and 
makes  the  air  resound  with  her  lamentations  and 
regrets — lamentations  that  she  must  live  in  Tran- 
sylvania, regrets  that  she  is  not  a  boy  instead  of 
"  a  horrid  stupid  girl." 

"  I  was  not  aware  before  that  vou  had  such  a 
good  idea  of  your  own  character,"  says  her  father, 
overhearing  the  last  remark. 

Even  Flora  feels  that  life  at  present  lacks 
some  zest.  "  How  soon  one  can  become  demoral- 
ized !  "  she  says.  "  It  seems  scarcely  worth  while 
to  have  cakes  and  ale  when  their  loss  leaves  such 
a  flatness  behind  them." 


126  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

There  are  other  cakes  and  ale  in  store  for  the 
Tyi'rells  at  this  moment,  however — little  as  they 
suspect  it.  Several  days  have  dragged  their  slow 
course  by,  and  Minnie  rises  each  morning,  saying, 
"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Charlton  and  George  will  come 
to-day  !  "  Instead  of  Charlton  and  George,  there 
comes  a  letter  from  Sunderland,  addressed  to 
Colonel  Tyrrell,  and  this  is  what  it  contains  : 

"KiCHMOND,  Septeniber  \Zth. 

"  My  Dear  Uncle  :  You  will  probably  think 
me  very  much  a  will-o'-the-wisp  when  you  glance 
at  the  top  of  this  page,  since  my  last  letter  to 
Flora  was  written  from  the  lakes.  We  left  there 
almost  immediately  after  that  epistle  was  dis- 
patched, and  traveled  down  through  the  Western 
cities  to  the  mountains  of  Virginia.  There  I  left 
the  Prestons,  and  came  here  yesterday.  Constant 
travel  has  slightly  knocked  me  up,  and  I  am  lying 
over  a  day  or  two  in  order  to  rest  and  see  some 
old  friends.  Then  I  shall  come  on  directly  to 
Transylvania.  You  would  scarcely  believe  it, 
perhaps — I  have  been  such  a  thorough  prodigal — 
but  I  am  homesick  for  a  glimpse  of  its  blue  hills. 
Tell  Flora  so,  with  my  dearest  love.  I  suppose, 
from  what  I  hear,  that  I  shall  still  find  Charlton 
with  you.  I  hope  my  coming  won't  prove  incon- 
venient. If  you  can  stow  me  away  in  a  corner,  I 
will  excuse  the  killing  of  a  fatted  calf. 
"  Yours,  with  affection, 

"Henry  Sunderland." 


"HOW  SHOULD   I   GREET   THEE?"  127 

The  rejoicing  which  takes  place  on  receipt  of 
this  intelligence  is  tumultuous.  "  Harry  is  com- 
ing ! "  cry  Minnie,  Oscar,  and  Nellie,  in  chorus. 
The  news  is  carried  to  the  servants,  whose  sable 
faces  glow  with  delight.  Let  his  faults  be  what 
they  may,  Sunderland  is  one  of  Nature's  princes 
— generous-hearted,  open-handed,  winning  love 
and  fealty  from  high  and  low.  Only  Flora  looks 
a  little  disturbed  and  pale,  and  Colonel  Tyrrell 
tries  ineffectually  to  mask  his  pleasure  by  saying  : 

"What  does  the  boy  mean  by  ^Titing  non- 
sense about  hoping  his  coming  will  not  prove  in- 
convenient ?    Does  he  think  such  a  thing  likely  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  HOW    SHOULD    I    GREET   THEE  ? " 

SuxDERLAND  is  comiug  !  This  is  to  Flora 
something  so  unexpected  as  to  be  almost  over- 
whelming. Two  months  ago  she  would  have  re- 
ceived such  an  announcement  as  the  best  thing 
that  could  possibly  be  heard  ;  but  in  the  interval 
things  have  changed  so  much  with  her — she  her- 
self has  seemed  to  change  so  much — that  it  is 
now  confusing  in  the  extreme,  and,  if  she  were 
honest  with  herself,  she  might  a<ld  unwelcome. 

But  she  is  not  honest  with  herself.     She  will 


128  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

not  admit  for  an  instant  that  Harry's  appearance 
could  possibly  be  unwelcome  to  her.  She  tries, 
indeed,  to  assure  herself  that  she  is,  that  she  must 
be,  glad  that  he  is  coming.  Yet  she  knows  in  her 
heart  that  she  is  not  glad,  and  she  knows  why 
she  is  not  glad.  Two  months  ago  she  longed  to 
see  him,  because  her  trust  in  him  had  not  been 
shaken — or,  if  shaken,  it  had  not  been  shattered. 
The  certainty  of  his  love,  in  which  for  a  time  she 
had  rested  content,  had  been  disturbed  by  vague 
fears  and  doubts,  but  these  fears  and  doubts  only 
made  her  long  the  more  for  the  presence  that 
would  end  them.  Since  that  time  everything 
has  been  altered.  She  has  learned  beyond  doubt 
that  he  loves,  she  has  even  heard  it  confidently 
asserted  that  he  is  engaged  to,  another  woman. 
For  herself,  she  has  been  forced  by  these  things 
to  face  the  secret  of  her  own  heart,  and  she  has 
even  gone  so  far  as  to  acknowledge  that  secret  to 
Charlton.  And  now  Harry  is  coming — Harry, 
whom  she  almost  feels  as  if  she  could  fly  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  to  avoid  !  He  is  coming,  and 
she  must  meet  him  ;  she  must  be  in  all  things  ex- 
actly what  she  was  of  old  ;  she  must  receive  his 
confidences,  and  let  him  suspect  nothing. 

Meanwhile  Sunderland  makes  no  long  tarrying 
— at  Richmond  or  elsewhere — but  follows  his  let- 
ter with  rapidity,  and  arrives  in  Transylvania  the 
second  day  after  it.  His  reception  almost  amounts 
to  an  ovation.     His  prolonged  absence,  his  care- 


"HOW  SHOULD  I  GREET  THEE?"     129 

lessness,  his  faults  of  all  kinds,  are  forgotten. 
He  has  come.  That  is  enough  for  his  loyal  sub- 
jects. 

It  is  enough,  at  least,  for  Colonel  Tyrrell,  for 
JNIinnie  and  Oscar  and  Nellie.  Even  Flora  finds 
her  strife  of  thought  —  her  painful  doubt  and 
hesitation — partially  swept  away  and  forgotten. 
Sunderland  is  so  entirely  the  HaiTy  whom  they 
all  remember,  the  world  has  changed  him  so  lit- 
tle, that  the  strange  constraint  with  which  w^e 
often  face,  after  long  absence,  a  once  familiar 
friend,  and  feel  that  time  has  dug  a  gulf  of 
change  between  us,  is  impossible  with  him.  It 
has  already  been  said  that,  with  all  her  gentleness, 
Flora  is  not  weak.  She  has  braced  herself  for 
this  meeting,  and  there  is  no  betraying  flush  on 
her  cheek,  and  no  betraying  tremor  in  her  voice — 
only  the  old  frank  gladness  in  her  eyes,  the  old 
frank  affection  in  her  tone. 

"  Harry,  dear  Harry,  how  good  of  you  to 
come  ! — how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  a^-ain  !  "  she 
says,  when  she  finds  both  her  hands  in  the  eager 
clasp  of  his. 

"  Good  of  me  to  come  !  "  repeats  Harry,  with 
a  laugh.  "  It  is  very  good  of  yoxi^  Floy,  to  put 
the  matter  in  that  light.  You  don't  know  how 
glad  I  am  to  be  back  !  There  is  no  place  in  the 
world  so  dear  to  me  as  this — and  none  so  pretty." 

"  Listen,  papa,  how  he  is  trying  to  flatter  us  !  " 

"  Flatter  you  !  "  says  Sunderland.  "  I  should 
9 


130  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

as  soon  think  of  trying  to  paint  the  lily  or  gild 
refined  gold." 

Indeed,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  young 
man  is  sincerely  glad  to  be  again  among  the  fa- 
miliar scenes  of  his  boyhood.  His  is  a  nature 
volatile  and  impressionable  in  the  extreme — a  fact 
which  constitutes  half  the  secret  of  his  popularity. 
He  is  so  honest — for  the  moment — in  the  pleasant 
sentiments  which  he  expresses,  that  people  feel 
this  honesty  (as  a  mere  sham  never  can  be  felt), 
and  yield  at  once  to  its  charm.  Men  who  are 
very  strong  in  their  individuality  rarely  win  so 
much  personal  regard  as  those  who,  like  Sunder- 
land, are  quick  to  receive  impressions  and  equally 
facile  in  losing  them  ;  to  whom  the  moment  is 
all-sufficient,  and  the  interest  of  the  moment  su- 
preme ;  who  accommodate  themselves  to  others, 
and  swim  lightly  on  the  current  of  events. 

So,  for  a  little  time.  Flora's  uncertainty  is  set 
at  rest.  She  listens  to  Harry's  gay  voice  telling 
all  the  wonderful  things  that  have  befallen  him, 
and  is  almost  inclined  to  ask  herself  if  she  is 
awake  or  dreaming.  Is  it  "  Yesterday  come  back, 
with  its  old  things,  and  not  To-day  ?  "  They  are 
gathered  in  the  familiar  sitting-room,  with  the 
murmur  of  the  river  coming  in  on  the  soft  breeze 
that  stirs  the  green  leaves  outside  the  windows 
and  the  curtains  within.  Harry's  handsome  face 
is  before  her  ;  she  hears  the  ring  of  pleasure  in 
her  father's  voice  as  he  asks  question  after  ques- 


"HOW  SHOULD   I   GREET   THEE?"  131 

tion.  Is  it  because  she  has  changed,  that  these 
things,  which  hare  not  changed,  strike  her  with  a 
sense  of  incongruity  ?  She  is  so  little  accustomed 
to  self-analysis,  that  the  question  puzzles  her,  and 
while  she  is  debating  it  Harry  is  saying  : 

"  You  have  all  altered  wonderfully  little. 
Minnie  has  become  a  young  lady — or  something 
very  near  one — and  Oscar  and  Nellie  are  two  or 
three  sizes  larger,  but  that  is  all.  No  doubt 
George  is  almost  a  man.  And,  by-the-by,  what 
have  you  done  with  Charlton  ?  When  I  came 
in,  something  was  said  about  his  having  *  gone 
west.'  AVhat  does  that  mean — Cherokee  or  Cali- 
fornia?" 

"  Cherokee  in  this  instance,"  answers  his  un- 
cle. "  George  has  gone  with  him,  and  Brandon 
— you  remember  Frank  Brandon  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so  indeed." 

"  They  left  here  with  a  large  party  ;  but,  in- 
stead of  returning  with  them,  went  on  to  Chero- 
kee— and  elsewhere.  Mr.  Charlton  is  anxious  to 
acquire  as  much  information  as  possible  about  the 
country." 

"  He  must  like  it.  lie  has  been  here  nearly 
two  months,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"He  came  the  last  of  July,"  says  Minnie, 
"  and  this  is  the  middle  of  September.  Yes — it's 
nearly  two  months.  Floy,  should  you  think  it 
had  been  so  long  ?  " 

"  We  have  found  him  a  very  agreeable  per- 


132  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

son,"  says  Colonel  Tyrrell,  "  and  we  are  much 
obliged  to  you  for  introducing  him,  Harry." 

"  He's  a  capital  fellow  in  his  way,"  replies 
Harry,  "  and  I  thought  it  likely  his  way  might 
suit  you  better  than  it  would  some  other  people. 
You  have  certainly  suited  lihn^  or  he  would  never 
have  staid  so  long.  What  has  been  the  princi- 
pal attraction  ?  " 

He  looks  at  Flora  as  he  speaks,  and  Flora  an- 
swers with  a  smile  :  "  You  have  been  so  long  out 
of  Transylvania  that  you  don't  remember  how 
many  attractions  it  has.  After  you  have  renewed 
your  acquaintance  with  them,  you  may  not  be  so 
much  surprised  that  Mr.  Charlton  has  lingered." 

*'  Do  you  think  I  am  surprised  ?  On  the  con- 
trary, I  know  that  Charlton  has  good  taste  ;  and 
nobody  with  good  taste  could  fail  to  like  Transyl- 
vania. If  you  think  I  have  forgotten  a  single 
one  of  its  attractions,  I  will  prove  to  you  that 
you  are  mistaken." 

"  Harry,  we've  got  two  of  the  prettiest  colts 
you  ever  saw,"  cries  Oscar.  "  Don't  you  want  to 
come  and  look  at  'em  ?  " 

"  Not  just  now,"  answers  Harry.  "  We'll 
stroll  out  after  dinner  while  I  smoke  a  cigar." 

After  dinner  they  stroll  out.  Colonel  Tyrrell 
accompanying  them,  and  Sunderland  shows  such 
lively  interest  in,  and  recollection  of,  everything 
about  the  place,  whether  animate  or  inanimate, 
that  the  elder  gentleman's  heart  warms. 


"HOW  SHOULD   I   GREET  THEE?"  133 

Having  made  the  tour  of  the  home  premises, 
he  suggests  that  they  take  horses  and  go  out  on 
the  plantation.  But  this  Sunderland  declines. 
"  Another  afternoon  I  shall  like  nothing  better," 
he  says,  "  but  to-day  you  must  excuse  me.  I 
have  scarcely  seen  Flora  yet,  and  I  am  anxious  to 
renew  our  acquaintance." 

So  it  happens  that,  half  an  hour  later,  the  door 
of  Flora's  chamber  opens,  and  a  curled,  shining 
head  appears  in  the  aperture.  It  is  the  head  of 
Nellie,  and  it  is  Nellie's  voice  that  speaks. 

"  Floy,"  she  cries,  "  Harry  says  will  you  take 
a  walk  or  a  ride  ?  He  says  whichever  you  please 
will  suit  him — and  the  horses  are  in  the  stable." 

"  Are  they  ?  "  says  Flora.  "  Tell  Harry,  then, 
I  will  ride  with  him  at  five  o'clock." 

She  sighs  a  little  after  the  eager  messenger 
has  departed.  Of  course  this  is  one  of  the  things 
to  be  expected — one  of  the  things  which  she  must 
necessarily  endure — but,  nevertheless,  she  shrinks 
from  it.  No  sense  of  indignation  occurs  to  her, 
as  it  might  to  another  woman.  She  does  not  say 
to  herself  that  Sunderland  might  have  remained 
at  Miss  Preston's  feet,  and  not  come  back  to 
amuse  himself  again  with  playing  at  cousinly 
love.  On  the  contrary,  she  thinks  that  it  is  she, 
and  she  only,  who  mistook  that  cousinly  love  for 
anything  deeper.  No  doubt  Sunderland  has  come 
to  tell  them  of  his  engagement,  and  he  treats  her 
now  as  he  treated  her  always — like  a  favorite  sis- 
ter. 


134  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

At  five  o'clock  she  comes  down  in  her  habit, 
to  find  the  horses  before  the  door,  and  Sunderland 
idling  in  the  hall. 

"  May  I  say  how  charming  you  look  ? "  he 
says,  coming  up  to  her.  "  I  always  thought  a 
habit  the  most  becoming  dress  a  woman  could 
wear,  and  you  are  so  graceful,  so  dainty.  By 
Jove  !  how  is  it  a  man  can  ever  be  blind  enough 
to  admire  an  Amazon  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  admired  Amazons  very  much," 
says  Flora. 

"  One  has  fits  of  abnormal  bad  taste  occa- 
sionally, but  it  would  not  be  just  to  hold  one 
accountable  for  them." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  answers,  with  gentle  sar- 
casm, "if  it  were  possible  to  discover  what  are 
your  normal  tastes." 

"  You  think  me  so  fickle  ?  " 

"  In  some  things — yes.  But  they  are  not 
very  essential  things,"  she  says,  looking  up  with 
a  sudden,  sweet  smile.  "  I  should  never  think  of 
doubting  your  constancy  where  important  mat- 
ters are  concerned." 

"  I  must  make  you  define  what  are  important 
matters,  before  I  can  accept  that  in  the  light  of 
an  aniende^'^  he  says,  gayly. 

Then  they  go  out  to  the  horses  and  mount. 
"  How  like  old  times  this  is  !  "  says  Sunderland, 
as  they  ride  across  the  bridge.  "  But  I  suppose 
they  scarcely  seem  old  times  to  you.     I  have  al- 


''HOW  SHOULD   I  GREET  TIIEE  ?  "  135 

ways  observed  that  when  time  passes  monotonous- 
ly it  also  passes  quickly." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answers  Flora.  "  In  some 
points  of  view  it  seems  a  long  time  since  you 
were  here  last.  Because  life  is  quiet,  it  does  not 
follow  that  it  is  monotonous." 

"  But  life  with  you  is  full  of  regular  occu- 
pation, and  nothing  heljis  the  flight  of  time 
more  than  tJiat.  While  I — ah  !  how  long  it 
seems  since  I  rode  by  your  side  along  this  lovely 
valley  !  Was  it  always  so  pretty  ?  It  seems  to 
me  it  has  grown  more  beautiful  since  I  went 
away." 

"  It  has  not  changed  in  the  least,"  answers 
Flora.  *'  How  could  it  ?  "  As  she  speaks,  her 
eyes  are  tenderly  limpid.  Let  what  will  have 
come  between  them,  Harry  is  Harry  still.  The 
breath  of  the  world  may  have  passed  over  him, 
but  his  heart  is  still  loyal  to  the  friends  and  the 
scenes  of  his  youth.  This  thought  sets  her  more 
at  ease  than  she  has  felt  yet.  She  looks  at  him 
with  a  smile.  "  How  could  it  ?  "  she  says.  "  But 
I  am  glad  that  you  have  not  changed,  Harry — I 
mean  I  am  glad  that  you  can  still  find  something 
to  admire  here." 

"  Something  to  admire  ! "  says  Harry.  "  By 
Jove  !  I  find  everything  to  admire.  I  have  seen 
nothing  so  charming  since  I  went  away.  And 
you  seem  to  suit  it  so  well.  Flora.  What  a  fool  I 
have  been  to  stay  away  so  long  ! " 


136  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

"  I  won't  quarrel  with  that  sentiment,  since  it 
has  brought  you  back  at  last,"  says  Flora. 

Talkmg  in  this  manner,  they  follow  a  road 
which  skirts  the  great  cornfields  and  leads  them 
into  the  woods.  O  wild  and  beautiful  forests, 
what  words  can  describe  your  glory  when  the 
serene  splendor  of  September  has  come  upon  you 
like  a  benediction  ?  Some  one  has  said  very  truly 
that  "  we  admire  the  beauty  of  other  lands,  we 
feel  that  of  our  own  ; "  and  all  in  a  moment,  as 
it  were,  Sunderland  realizes  this.  To  his  inmost 
heart  he  feels  the  chord  of  nativity  thrill.  He  is 
no  stranger  here.  There  is  scarcely  a  ravine 
among  these  hills,  or  a  path  over  them,  which  he 
does  not  know  as  Rob  Roy  knew  his  native  heath. 

"  What  a  fool  I  have  been  ! "  he  says  again 
with  emphasis.  "  Floy,  I  wonder  if  you  forgive 
me  for  my  folly  ?  I  am  half  inclined  to  think 
you  don't.  You  are  gentle  and  sweet  and  cordial, 
but  not  what  you  used  to  be." 

Flora  does  not  blush  at  this.  Some  things  are 
too  deep  for  blushing.  She  only  looks  at  him 
with  her  frank  blue  eyes,  and  answers  quietly  :  "  If 
I  don't  remember  all  that  I  used  to  be,  Harry, 
you  should  not  blame  me.  Two  years  make  a 
chasm  in  one's  life.  But  you  must  not  think  I 
have  anything  to  forgive  with  regard  to  your 
having  staid.  Why  should  I  have  ?  I  felt  all 
the  time — and  told  papa — that  it  was  very  natu- 
ral." 


"HOW   SHOULD   I   GREET   THEE?"  137 

*'  That  was  kind  of  you  ;  but  if  you  had  want- 
ed to  see  me,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  been  so 
reasonable." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  says  Flora.  She  smiles  a  lit- 
tle— a  smile  he  does  not  comprehend.  "  Whether  I 
wanted  to  see  you  or  not,"  she  goes  on,  "  I  am  glad 
that  you  are  here,  and  that  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

"  It  ought,  certainly  ;  but  I  suppose  I  am  un- 
reasonable. I  should  like  you  to  make  the  assur- 
ance a  little  warmer — if  you  could  conveniently 
do  so." 

*'  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  badly  spoiled.  I 
shall  not  think  of  making  it  warmer.  Here  we 
are  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  See  !  This  used  to  be 
one  of  your  favorite  views." 

It  is  a  charming  view,  and  Sunderland  admires 
it  as  much  as  his  companion  could  possibly  desire. 
"  Broad  extended,  far  beneath,"  lies  the  fertile 
valley — an  Arcadia  of  peaceful  loveliness — with 
its  swellinfij  backorround  of  wooded  hills  and  azure 
peaks. 

"  I  have  seen  nothing  like  it  since  I  went  away," 
says  Sunderland — "  nothing  so  wild,  so  beautiful, 
so  fresh  !  Floy,  I  am  half -minded  never  to  go 
away  again." 

Flora  laughs — a  low,  sad  little  laugh,  though 
Sunderland's  ear  is  not  quick  enough  to  catch  its 
sadness.  "You  will  think  differently  a  month — 
perhaps  even  a  week — hence,"  she  says,  turning 
her  horse's  head. 


138  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

He  turns  liis  horse  also,  with  a  quick,  impa- 
tient movement,  and  rides  up  to  her  side.  "  Such 
speeches  are  not  like  you,"  he  says,  "  and  I  con- 
sider them  very  unkind.  I  must  know  why  you 
have  begun  to  think  so  poorly  of  me — to  consider 
me  so  hopelessly  fickle  ?  Has  Charlton  been  giv- 
ing you  his  idea  of  my  character  ?  " 

She  looks  at  him  with  eyes  half  indignant, 
half  reproachful.  "  How  little  you  know  me, 
Harry  ! "  she  says.  "  How  little  you  could  ever 
have  known  me,  to  ask  such  a  thing!  Do  you 
think  I  would  listen  while  any  one — any  one 
in  the  world — spoke  ill  of  you  ?  But  I  have  not 
been  tried,  for  IMi*.  Charlton  has  never  said  any- 
thing that  was  not  good.  I  am  sure  that  he  is 
one  of  your  best  friends." 

After  this  they  converse  amicably  enough  for 
some  time,  as  they  ride  along  with  low  red  sun- 
shine streaming  through  the  brown  boles  of  the 
trees,  and  their  shadows  stretching  gigantically  in 
front.  They  pause  on  the  crest  of  a  hill  to  watch 
the  sun  go  down  in  glory — dipping  behind  the 
distant  mountains,  and  leaving  islands  and  conti- 
nents of  purest  amethyst  in  a  sea  of  dazzling  gold, 
while  over  the  sky  above  light  feathery  clouds  of 
rose  color,  soft  as  an  angel's  plumage,  float.  Then 
they  turn  their  horses'  heads  homeward,  and  it  is 
then  that  Flora  musters  courage  to  say :  "  You 
have  not  mentioned  Miss  Preston  yet,  Harry. 
Don't  you  mean  to  tell  me  anything  about  her  ?  " 


"HOW  SHOULD   I  GREET  THEE?"  139 

Harry  is  surprised,  and  shows  as  much  by 
changing  color — a  sign  of  confusion  into  which, 
"as  a  man  of  the  world,"  he  dislikes  exceedingly 
to  be  betrayed.  "  What  do  you  know  about  Miss 
Preston  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Nothing  very  much,"  she  answers.  "  Only 
that  you  are  said  to  be  engaged  to  her  ;  and  when 
matters  reach  such  a  serious  point  as  that,  I  think 
your  old  friends  ought  to  know  something 
of  it." 

"  How  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonderful 
did  any  gossip  of  that  description  reach  here  ?  " 

"  I  met  a  Miss  Dupont  at  Caesar's  Head,  who 
knows  Miss  Preston  very  well.  She  told  me  that 
the  affair  was  considered  settled." 

"  Confound  her  ! "  says  Harry,  ungallantly. 
"  She  is  a  thorough-paced  mischief-maker,  and 
wrote  any  amount  of  gossip  about  you  from 
Cassar's  Head." 

"  Gossip  about  me  !  "  says  Flora,  amazed. 
"  To  whom,  pray  ?  " 

"  To  Miss  Preston,  who  gave  me  the  benefit 
of  it." 

"  But  what  did  she  find  to  say  of  me  ?  " 

"  Only  that  Charlton  was  *  most  devoted ' — 
and  much  more  in  that  order." 

"  She  must  certainly  have  drawn  on  her  imagi- 
nation for  the  devotion,"  says  Flora,  quietly, 
"  since  to  the  best  of  my  recollection  she  did  not 
see  me  with  Mr.  Charlton  at  all." 


140  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

"  But  she  was  aware  that  you  went  out  with 
him  to  see  a  moonrise.  In  short,  you  were  brought 
in  guilty  of  a  flirtation  of  the  deepest  dye,  and 
therefore  I  expect  you  to  be  lenient  to  me  when  I 
confess  my  mild  peccadilloes." 

Flora  remembers  that  moonrise — and  all  that 
was  said  then — so  well  that  she  cannot  restrain  a 
laugh  which  is  compounded  of  various  emotions, 
and  which  is  more  nervous  than  mirthful. 

"  Don't  talk  more  nonsense  than  you  can  help, 
Harry,"  she  says ;  "  but  tell  me,  are  you  en- 
gaged ?  " 

"  I  will  be  obliging,  and  answer  frankly — I  am 
not.  Since  it  is  not  the  fashion  for  men  to  say 
what  is  untrue  on  that  subject,  I  hope  you  will 
believe  me." 

"Believe  you  !  I  should  think  so,  indeed. 
But  I  suppose  you  icill  be  engaged — some  time." 

"  I  think  it  very  likely — some  time,  as  you  say. 
But  not  to  Miss  Preston." 

"  Harry  ! " 

"  So  you  don't  believe  me  !  Well,  I  can't  help 
it.  A  man  can  tell  no  more  than  the  truth,  if  he 
is  a  truthful  person." 

They  are  riding  down  hill  now,  and  their  road 
leads  between  high  banks,  with  such  dense  shade 
arching  overhead  that,  although  the  colors  of  sun- 
set still  burn  in  the  sky,  their  way  is  almost  in 
twilight.  Flora  cannot  see  her  companion's  face, 
to  judge  whether  or  not  he  was  in  earnest;  hence 


now  SHOULD   I  GREET  THEE?"  141 

there  is  a  strong  spice  of  doubt  in  lier  tone  when 
she  answers  : 

"  I  hope  you  are  truthful,  but  it  was  not  always 
a  virtue  of  yours.  And  how  can  you  deny  that 
you  are — that  you  have  been — in  love  with  Miss 
Preston?" 

"  Confine  your  accusations  to  one  tense,  sweet 
cousin.  I  am  not  in  love  with  Miss  Preston  now, 
whatever  I  raav  have  been." 

"  And  yet — O  Harry  ! — you  say  that  you  are 
not  fickle  ! " 

"  I  do  say  it,  and  I  mean  to  prove  it — but  not 
just  now.  Here  we  are  at  the  foot  of  the  hill;  let 
us  have  a  canter." 

The  horses  are  willing  enough,  and  they  sweep 
at  a  rapid  pace  through  the  rich  bottom  lands, 
surrounded  by  tall,  rustling  corn,  with  wafts  of 
f rac:rance  from  the  river-side  borne  to  them  on  the 
fresh  breeze,  and  golden  stars  beginning  to  gleam 
faintly  in  the  violet  sky  above.  They  reach  the 
bridge,  cross  it,  and,  still  at  a  canter,  ride  up  to 
the  door  of  the  house.  Then,  as  Sunderland 
swings  himself  to  the  ground  in  order  to  lift  his 
companion  from  her  saddle,  Nellie  rushes  out  and 
2)roclaims  at  the  top  of  her  voice  : 

"  O  Floy,  George  and  Mr.  Charlton  have 
come  ! " 


142  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  IF    SHE    BE    NOT    FAIE    TO    ME." 

"An^C  so,"  says  Charlton,  calmly,  "you  are  off 
with  the  new  love,  and  on  with  the  old — is  that 
it?" 

The  time  is  the  day  after  Charlton's  arrival ; 
the  hour  is  approaching  noon  ;  the  place  is  Colo- 
nel Tyrrell's  la^Ti.  The  two  young  men  are  ly- 
ing on  the  warm,  dry  grass,  with  flickering  shade 
falling  over  them.  As  they  glance  upward,  they 
see  one  of  the  most  charming  sights  in  the  world 
— depths  of  green  foliage  with  sunlight  striking 
through  it,  and  patches  of  sky  showing  beyond. 
On  these  September  days  the  sky  is  blue  as  the 
heart  of  a  sapphire,  and  the  far  mountains  look  as 
if  they  were  carved  in  lapis-lazuli.  The  river 
flowing  over  its  rocky  bed  does  no  more  than  fill 
the  silence  with  a  soft,  reposeful  murmur.  Sun- 
derland, supporting  himself  on  his  elbow,  looks  at 
his  companion,  and  thinks  that  he  is  provokingly 
calm  ;  yet  if  the  truth  were  known,  Charlton  is 
not  very  much  in  unison  with  his  surroundings. 
He  is  angry,  disgusted,  contemptuous  ;  but  none 
of  these  things  appear  on  the  surface.  He  only 
regards  Sunderland  through  half-closed  eyes  as  he 
utters  the  words  recorded  above. 

"I  suppose  that  is  about  the  sum  of  it,"  the 


"IF  SHE  BE  NOT  FAIR  TO   ME."  I43 

young  man  answers.  "  I  might  do  worse  than  be 
on  with  the  okl  love,  however;  you've  seen  enough 
of  Flora  to  grant  that,  I'm  sure." 

*'  I  begin  to  think  that  you  are  a  consummate 
young  puppy  to  imagine  that  you  can  be  on  or  off 
with  women  exactly  when  you  like,"  says  Charl- 
ton. 

*'  You  ought  to  know  me  better  than  that," 
Sunderland  replies,  flushing,  but  keeping  his  tem- 
per. "Nothing  was  farther  from  my  thoughts 
than  to  imagine  that  I  could  be  on  or  off  with 
them  as  I  liked.  There's  Gertrude  Preston — by- 
the-by,  I  haven't  told  you  about  her  yet." 

"  No.  I  imagine,  however,  that  she  grew  tired 
of  you,  or  vice  versa.^^ 

"  It  would  be  putting  it  more  correctly  to  say 
that  we  grew  tired  of  each  other.  I  had  been 
drawTi  into  offering  myself  before  I  received  your 
letter  setting  my  mind  at  rest  about  Flora,  but  of 
course  it  was  a  great  relief  to  me.  Gertrude  ac- 
cepted me — I  never  had  much  doubt  about  that — 
and  we  were  engaged  for  several  weeks.  Now," 
says  Mr.  Sunderland,  with  an  air  of  profound  re- 
flection, "it  is  a  very  disenchanting  kind  of  thing 
to  be  engaged  to  a  woman — almost  worse  than  be- 
insj  married  to  her.  With  retjard  to  marriajxe, 
there's  something  in  a  man's  nature  which  makes 
him  resign  himself  to  the  inevitable.  But  one  has 
no  sense  of  that  kind  about  an  cnecairement.  You 
begin  to  feel  grave  doubts  as  to  whether  or  not 


144  A  SUMMEE  IDYL. 

you  have  acted  wisely,  and  you  look  at  the  lady 
far  more  coolly  and  critically  than  you  ever  did 
before.  It  is  unnecessary  to  remark,  perhaps,  that 
not  very  many  women  can  stand  being  looked  at 
in  that  manner.  Gertrude  certainly  could  not. 
Before  a  fortnight  had  passed,  my  most  active 
sensation  when  with  her  was  a  sense  of  boredom. 
I  supjDose  I  was  not  so  devoted  as  I  should  have 
been,  in  consequence.  She  grew  tired  of  me  also. 
A  rich  Kentuckian  whom  we  met  at  the  lakes  came 
in  opportunely  to  cut  the  knot  of  our  difficulty. 
She  flirted  with  him.  I  ventured  to  express  dis- 
approval ;  she  grew  angry.  I  declined  to  recede 
from  my  position,  whereupon  she  gave  me  my 
conge.  I  retired  with  a  sense  of  great  relief. 
And  there  ends  the  story." 

Vexed  as  he  is,  Charlton  cannot  restrain  a 
smile  as  he  looks  at  the  unruffled  face  of  the 
speaker.  "  What  a  thorough  epicurean  you  are  !  " 
he  says.  "  Do  you  mean  to  go  through  life  chas- 
ing every  object  that  attracts  your  fancy,  and 
tiring  of  it  as  soon  as  it  is  in  your  possession  ?  " 

"  I  consider  that  the  fault  is  in  the  object  or 
objects,  not  in  me,"  returns  Sunderland,  placidly. 
*^You  are  mistaken  in  thinking  there  is  no  con- 
stancy in  my  nature.  I  am  like  a  man  who  left  a 
star  to  follow  an  ignis  fatuiis.  Now  I  have  come 
back  to  my  star." 

"  Meaning  your  cousin,  I  presume  ?  " 

*' Meaning  my  cousin,  of  course.     You  don't 


''IF  SHE   BE   NOT   FAIR  TO   ME."  I45 

understand  women  very  well,  Charlton  ;  so  I 
think  you  must  have  been  mistaken  when  you  de- 
cided that  she  did  not  care  for  me,  save  '  as  a 
cousin,  cousinlv.'  I  am  certain  that  she  cared 
for  me  in  a  different  fashion  two  years  ago  ;  and 
women  like  Flora  don't  change  readily." 

"  I  suppose,  then,  that  you  intend  to  reward 
her  supposed  constancy  by  the  offer  of  your  heart 
and  hand — for  a  week  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic,  my  dear  fellow.  If  Flora 
accepts  me,  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  be  constant 
to  he/-:'' 

*'  Why  should  I  be  sure  of  it  ?  You  haven't 
been  constant  to  other  women." 

"  They  were  not  women  who  deserved,  desired, 
or  expected  constancy.  But  Flora  is  different. 
I  low  gentle  yet  how  true  she  is  ! "  says  the  young 
man,  with  his  voice  softening  a  little.  "  By  Jove, 
Charlton,  you  may  laugh  if  you  like,  but  I  have 
come  to  my  senses  at  last,  and  I  see  now  that  my 
best  chance  in  life  is  here  ;  and  I  mean  to  win  it 
if  I  can." 

He  rises  as  he  speaks  and  goes  away  toward 
the  river,  leaving  Charlton  still  lying  on  the  grass. 
"  Laugh  !  "  repeats  that  gentleman.  "  *  He  laughs 
best  who  laughs  last  ; '  and  I'm  not  likely  to  do 
that.  After  all,  it  may  be  for  the  best.  She  de- 
serves a  better  fate,  but  c/ie  sard,  sard" 

Fortifying  himself  with  this  bit  of  philosophy, 
he  remains  for  several  minutes  in  unmolested 
10 


146  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

quiet,  until  a  shadow  falls  over  him  ;  and,  remov- 
ing his  gaze  from  the  depths  of  green  and  gold 
overhead,  he  finds  that  Sunderland  has  returned 
and  is  standing  by  his  side. 

"  Charlton,"  he  says,  in  an  insinuating  tone, 
"  you've  been  here  two  months  now,  and  you  ought 
to  have  learned  a  good  deal  about  Flora.  What  do 
you  think  of  the  chances  for  me  ?  " 

"Unless  I  am  mistaken,"  answers  Charlton, 
"  you  expressed  a  very  poor  opinion  of  my  judg- 
ment with  regard  to  women,  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  It  may  be  better  than  I  fancied." 

"  Accordingly  as  it  suits  you  or  not.  Thanks  ; 
but  in  the  present  case  I  have  no  opinion  to  offer." 

"  Look  here,"  says  Sunderland — and  his  voice 
has  suddenly  become  grave — "are  you  in  love 
with  her  yourself  ?  " 

"  Do  you  fancy  that,  because  you  are  giddy, 
the  world  turns  round  ?  " 

"  That's  no  answer  at  all — and,  by  Jove  !  I  be- 
lieve that  you  are  in  love  with  her  ! " 

Charlton  deliberately  raises  himself  from  the 
grass,  picks  up  his  straw  hat,  and  says,  with  a 
sigh  :  "  If  you  are  determined  to  discuss  the  sub- 
ject, you  can  at  least  come  out  of  earshot  range 
of  the  house.  There  is  no  saying  how  much  of  a 
nuisance  a  man  in  your  position  may  make  him- 
self, but  at  least  he  need  not  be  overheard.  Let 
us  go  down  to  the  river." 

So  down  the  gentle  slope  of  the  lawn  they 


"IF  SnE   BE   NOT  FAIR   TO   ME."  147 

stroll  to  where  the  river  flows  idly  by  under  its 
drooping  shade. 

"  Now,"  says  Charlton,  as  he  finds  himself 
with  his  companion  in  the  same  green  dell  where 
he  sat  with  Flora  one  evening  and  felt  sure  that 
she  cared  nothing  for  her  cousin  in  the  way  that 
cousin  imagined,  *'  you  asked  me  a  question  a 
minute  ago  which  you  had  no  right  to  ask,  but 
which  I  shall  answer  nevertheless.  You  asked  if 
I  am  in  love  with  your  cousin.  I  answer  candidly 
— yes." 

Sunderland,  notwithstanding  his  suspicions,  is 
so  much  astonished  by  this  reply,  that  he  does  not 
even  say  "  By  Jove  !  "  but  only  stares. 

"  Are  vou  in  earnest  ?  "  he  asks,  after  a  min- 
ute.  "  I  did  not  really  think  that  a  man  of  the 
worhl  like  you  would  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  like 
Flora.  I  thought  you  might  have  flirted,  but  in 
love — " 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  flirts  ?  "  asks  Charl- 
ton, with  contemptuous  severity.  "  And  you  ought 
to  know  Miss  Tyrrell  better  than  to  associate  such 
an  idea  with  her,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  asked  her 
to  marry  me  three  weeks  ago." 

Harry's  familiar  expletive  comes  to  his  aid 
now.     He  says  "  By  Jove  !  "  with  emphasis. 

"  I  tell  you  this,"  Charlton  goes  on  with  the 
utmost  coolness,  "  in  order  that  you  may  not  mis- 
interpret anything  that  you  may  observe  in  your 
cousin's  manner  to  me.     I  also  feel  that  I  owe 


148  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

you  a  slight  explanation.  I  came  here  charged, 
as  you  know,  with  a  very  difficult  and  delicate 
mission.  I  was  commissioned  to  sound  Miss  Tyr- 
rell's heart  and  let  you  know  how  much  of  a  place 
you  had  won  therein.  I  performed  this  task  to 
the  best  of  my  ability,  and  gave  you  what  I  hon- 
estly believed  to  be  the  result." 

"  Yes,"  says  Harry,  "  but — you'll  excuse  me — 
did  not  your  own  desires  color  that  result?  In 
other  words,  didn't  you  thiiik  what  you  hoped?  " 
"  At  that  time  I  hoped  nothing.  My  interest 
in  your  cousin  was  no  deeper  than  friendly  ad- 
miration. When  I  learned  that  she  was  fancy- 
free,  however,  my  own  fancy  grew,  until  it  ended 
as  I  have  told  you." 

"And  she  rejected  you?" 

"  Yes — very  kindly,  but  decidedly." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  remarks  Harry  once  more. 

Then  there  is  silence  for  several  minutes.    The 

younger  man  is  amazed  by  what  he  has  heard, 

and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Flora  rises  in  his 

opinion  by  the  fact  that  she  has  brought  to  her 

feet  the  impassive  Charlton — and  rejected  him. 

It  is  a  triumph  which  Harry  appreciates  more 

than  she  was  able  to  do.     He  knows  that  since 

the  young  writer  has  become  noted,  more  than 

one  fashionable  woman  with  d^pencha^it  for  "  clever 

men  "  has  endeavored  to  throw  her  toils  over  him, 

and  failed  signally.     Consequently,  Charlton  has 

won   for   himself   in  certain  drawing-rooms   the 


"IF  SHE   BE   NOT  FAIR   TO   ME."  149 

reputation  of  a  well-bred  bear.  And  this  bear 
Flora  has  the  distinction  of  having  tamed.  Sun- 
derland— like  most  men — feels  justified  in  his 
choice  when  he  finds  that  it  is  also  the  choice  of 
another  man.  He  feels  sure  that  Flora  could  hc.ve 
had  but  one  reason  for  rejecting  Charlton,  and 
that  reason  must  have  been  a  partiality  for  him- 
self. Charlton  reads  his  thoughts  and  smiles  a 
little.  "  The  comedy  will  soon  be  ended,"  he 
thinks,  "but  I  shall  leave  before  the  closing  scene 
of  clasped  hands  and  tender  vows." 

Meanwhile  there  is  some  important  matter 
afoot  in  the  household  this  morning — at  least  as 
far  as  the  younger  members  are  concerned.  Min- 
nie and  the  boys  seclude  themselves  in  a  mysteri- 
ous manner,  while  Nellie  Hits  to  and  fro  witli  a 
face  of  grave  importance.  The  cause  of  this 
transpires  at  dinner,  when  every  one  finds  in  his 
or  her  napkin  a  three-cornered  note.  These  mis- 
sives are  all  alike,  and  contain  the  following,  in 
Minnie's  large,  straggling  writing  : 

"You  are  invited  to  attend  a  gypsy  supper, 
which  will  be  given  this  afternoon  at  Glen  Flora, 
at  5  p.  M.  punctually." 

There  is  a  general  laugh,  and  Charlton  asks 
where  Glen  Flora  may  be  situated,  and  by  M'honi 
it  was  so  felicitously  named. 

"By  Harry,"  answers  Miss  Tyrrell.     "It  is  a 


150  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

lovely  glen  where  we  used  to  go  for  all  festivities 
of  tins  kind  when  we  were  children." 

"  And  will  you  all  come  ? "  asks  Nellie,  anx- 
iously addressing  the  company. 

"  I,  for  one,  will  certainly  do  myself  that 
honor,"  answers  Charlton. 

Flora,  Sunderland,  and  Mr.  Martin,  respond  to 
the  same  effect.  Only  Colonel  Tyrrell  excuses 
himself  from  attending,  and  mildly  ex2:>resses  a 
hope  that  he  may  have  some  tea  at  his  usual  hour, 
and  in  his  usual  manner. 

The  earlier  hours  of  the  afternoon  pass  as  usual. 
Flora  escapes  to  the  sanctuary  of  her  own  chamber 
— ostensiblj'^  for  siesta.  Charlton  goes  to  his  room 
and  turns  the  key — ostensibly  for  writing.  Colo- 
nel Tyrrell  lies  on  the  lounge  in  the  hall,  and 
snores  virtuously.  Sunderland,  left  to  his  own 
devices,  wanders  about  aimlessly,  drums  a  little 
on  the  piano,  and  dijDs  into  one  or  two  magazines. 
Minnie  is  busily  employed  in  sending  well-laden 
messengers  to  Glen  Flora,  whither  she  herself  goes 
at  four  o'clock.  At  half-past  four  the  invited 
guests  assemble  in  the  hall.  Flora  comes  down 
in  a  pretty  blue  muslin  that  is  very  becoming, 
with  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  shading  her  face. 
She  smiles  and  says,  "  It  is  time  to  start,  since  we 
were  requested  to  be  punctual." 

How  it  chances — whether  from  accident  or  not 
— Charlton  does  not  know,  but  he  finds  himself  by 
her  side  as  they  pass  out  of  the  house,  and  he  has 


"IF  SHE   BE   NOT  FAIR   TO   ME."  151 

no  oj^portunity  to  rectify  the  mistake,  if  mistake 
it  is,  by  falling  back.  Perhaps  he  has  little  desire 
to  do  so.  Flora  shows  by  a  certain  gentle  eager- 
ness of  manner  that  she  is  not  ill-pleased  with  his 
companionship,  and  there  is  a  charm  in  hers  which 
he  appreciates  as  much  as  ever.  The  flower-like 
eyes,  the  quick  symjjathy,  the  wistful,  tender  voice 
will  be  Sunderland's  for  life  ;  so  the  man  who 
must  soon  say  farewell  to  them  forever  feels  that 
he  may,  without  harming  any  one,  enjoy  them  for 
a  little  while.  lie  strolls  by  her  side,  therefore, 
along  the  river  bank,  which  they  follow  for  some 
distance.  Then  the  path  turns  abruptly  and  leads 
them  among  the  hills.  Long  lances  of  sunlight 
stream  into  the  green  stillness  of  the  forest.  All 
manner  of  sweet  resinous  odors  greet  them. 
Through  the  winding  gorge  which  they  enter,  a 
tumultuous  stream  comes  in  white,  foaming  rap- 
ids. Presently  they  pass  around  the  jutting 
shoulder  of  a  great  hill,  and  then  a  pretty  sight 
is  before  them. 

The  gorge  has  expanded  into  a  lovely  glen, 
overhung  on  all  sides  but  one  by  steej),  precipitous 
hills,  the  sides  of  which  are  a  mass  of  verdure,  a 
riotous  tangle  of  vines  and  flowers.  At  the  base 
of  the  steepest  of  these  heights,  a  spring  gushes 
up  from  among  gray  rocks — the  head  of  the  stream 
which  takes  its  way  through  the  gorge.  Large 
masses  of  rock  are  scattered  in  every  direction, 
cushioned  with  moss,  draped  with  ferns.     On  one 


152  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

of  these — a  smooth,  flat  bowlder — the  table  is  set. 
At  a  little  distance  a  bright  fire  burns,  over  which 
a  kettle  is  suspended.  Minnie  and  Oscar  are  hov- 
ering around  this,  busily  engaged  making  tea  ; 
George,  at  a  little  distance,  is  cutting  lemons  for 
lemonade  ;  Jack  is  pounding  the  lemons  prepara- 
tory to  their  being  cut ;  while  Nellie  is  assisting 
(and  hindering)  both  parties  as  much  as  possible. 
The  smoke  mounts  upward  among  the  green 
boughs,  a  pretty  pale-blue  thread ;  the  crystal 
water  flashes  like 

*'  a  Naiad's  silvery  feet, 
In  quick  and  coy  retreat," 

as  it  ripples  by  ;  the  amber  sunshine  streams  on 
the  hillsides,  lighting  up  the  rich  foliage  and  mas- 
sive rocks,  while  the  glen  rests  in  cool  green 
shadow.  The  whole  scene  is  charming  and  pict- 
uresque in  the  extreme. 

"  So  this  is  Glen  Flora !  "  says  Charlton. 
"  What  a  lovely  place !  Why  have  you  never 
brought  me  here  before  ?  " 

"There  have  been  so  many  places  to  show 
you,"  Flora  answers,  "that  I  never  thought  of 
this.     Well,  Minnie,  I  hope  we  are  not  too  early  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  replies  Minnie  ;  "  tea  vnl\  be  ready 
in  a  few  minutes.  Nellie,  bring  some  more  twigs 
to  the  fire.    This  kettle  is  not  boiling  as  it  ought.'' 

"  Let  us  sit  down  and  wait  for  the  kettle  to 
boil,"  says  Flora. 


-   "IF   SHE   BE   NOT   FAIR   TO   ME."  153 

So  they  sit  down  on  a  rock,  and  for  ten  min- 
utes longer  Charlton  enjoys  his  bit  of  pleasure  un- 
disturbed, looks  in  the  fair  face  that  is  not  fair 
for  him,  and  listens  to  the  sweet  voice  that  will 
never  utter  the  words  he  wishes  to  hear.  Then 
Sunderland  appears  round  the  corner  of  the  hill, 
and  the  pleasure  is  over.  He  comes  up  and  throws 
himself  down  on  the  ferns  at  Flora's  feet.  Charl- 
ton rises,  feeling  that  his  hour  is  over,  says  a  few 
words,  and  then  walks  away,  leaving  the  cousins 
toijether. 

One  of  them,  at  least,  is  grateful  for  this  con- 
sideration. Harry  looks  up  in  the  blue  eyes  above 
him  and  says  :  "  How  pleasant  this  is,  Floy  !  Do 
you  feel  it  as  well  as  I  ?  Are  you  glad  that  we 
are  here  aj^ain — toarether  ?  " 

His  voice  drops  over  the  last  words  into  a  ten- 
der key.  With  the  best  intentions  possible,  he  is 
not  averse  to  practising  on  his  cousin  the  art 
which  a  two  years'  training  in  flirtation  has  given 
him — the  great  art  of  implying  in  tone  and  look 
infinitely  more  than  is  expressed  in  words.  He 
learned  this  lesson  very  quickly,  and  is  now  re- 
garded as  an  adept  in  the  science.  There  can  be 
no  doubt,  however,  that  at  present  he  has  made  a 
grave  mistake.  Flora,  who  is  ready  to  renew  the 
frank  kindness,  the  cousinly  familiarity  of  their 
old  association,  draws  back  from  such  glances  and 
cadences  as  these.  She  understands  them — the 
dullest  woman  alive  must  have  understood  them — 


154  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

and  it  seems  to  her  that  their  meaning  is  very 
plain  ;  that  Harry  wishes  to  amuse  himself  by 
flirting  with  her — feeling,  no  doubt,  that  this 
amusement  is  better  than  none.  A  quick  throb 
of  indignation,  a  quick  sensation  of  wounded  j^ride, 
passes  over  her  ;  but  she  is  self-possessed  enough 
to  keep  all  traces  of  such  emotions  out  of  her  tone 
as  she  answers  : 

"  Of  course  I  am  glad  that  you  are  back  again  ; 
but  I  should  think  that  all  this  would  be  very  dull 
and  uninteresting  to  you.  A  gypsy  supper  must 
seem  like  tea  after  champagne  to  one  who  has 
known  gayer  festivities." 

"  The  gayer  festivities  have  bored  me  a  hun- 
dred times — which  no  gypsy  supper  ever  did," 
says  Harry.  "  If  you  knew  how  happy  it  makes 
me  to  be  here  with  you  now,  you  Avould  not  say 
such  unkind  things." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind.  It  did  not 
seem  to  me  a  very  terrible  accusation  that  pas- 
toral pleasures  might  have  lost  their  savor  to 
you." 

"  How  could  they — when  all  the  best  happiness 
of  my  life  is  connected  with  them  ?  " 

"  The  best  happiness  of  your  life  !  "  She 
laughs.  "  My  dear  Harry,  do  you  know  for  two 
days  together  what  is  the  happiness  of  your 
life  ?  " 

"  Flora  ! "  says  Harry.  He  is  so  much  sur- 
prised, that  he  scarcely  remembers  that  he  has  a 


"IF  SHE   BE   NOT   FAIR  TO   ME."  155 

right  to  be  indignant.  "  Wliat  do  you  mean  ? 
By  Jove,  I  never  heard  anything — " 

"  Supper's  ready — come  to  supper,  Floy  !  " 
cries  Nellie,  darting  forward. 

Flora  rises  at  once — by  no  means  ill  pleased 
with  the  interruption — and,  accompanied  by  Har- 
ry, goes  to  the  rock  which  serves  as  a  table,  where 
the  rest  are  gathered.  Charlton  is  the  only  lag- 
gard ;  but  before  Minnie  has  finished  pouring  out 
the  cups  of  tea,  he  appears  with  two  or  three 
flowers  in  his  hand. 

"  I  saw  these  on  the  hill  yonder,"  he  says  to 
Flora,  "  and  remembering  that  you  said  they  were 
rare,  and  that  you  wanted  a  specimen,  I  got  them 
for  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  says,  receiving  them  with  a 
grateful  glance.  "  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to 
remember  what  I  said,  and  to  climb  that  steep  hill. 
They  are  beautiful." 

"  They  are  the  tribute  of  the  glen  to  its  god- 
dess," says  Harry,  gallantly. 

"  I  like  better  to  think  that  they  are  the  fruit 
of  Mr.  Charlton's  kindness,"  says  Flora,  looking 
at  that  gentleman. 

And  he,  meeting  the  frank  sweet  eyes,  thinks 
again  how  fair  she  is,  how  gracious,  how  tender — 
and  how  far  beyond  his  reach  ! 


156  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"under  the  greexttood  bough." 

The  gypsy  supper  is  a  great  success,  if  suc- 
cess be  gauged  by  the  appetites  of  the  company. 
Sandwiches  and  cold  chicken,  jellies  and  cakes, 
disappear  with  rapidity.  Minnie's  tea  is  pro- 
nounced excellent,  and  George's  lemonade  is  com- 
mended. A  bottle  of  claret  is  opened,  and  various 
toasts  are  proposed.  There  is  some  mock  speech- 
making  and  much  merriment — the  last,  probably, 
in  undue  proportion.  When  hearts  are  light  and 
spii'its  high,  when  summer  skies  are  fair  and  sum- 
mer woods  green,  who  can  wonder  at  the  laugh 
which  is  quick  to  follow  the  poorest  jest  ? 

"  '  Oh,  a  life  in  the  woods  is  the  life  for  me, 
And  that  is  the  life  for  a  man ! 
Let  others  boast  of  their  home  on  the  sea, 
But  match  me  the  woods  if  you  can !  '  " 

sings  George,  who  is  slightly  exhilarated  by  the 
claret.  "Mr.  Charlton,  do  you  like  this  better 
than  roughing  among  the  Balsams  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  inquires  Charlton. 

"  Not  I,"  answers  the  young  fellow  gayly. 
"  Bear-meat  and  venison  are  better  than  all  your 
dainties.  Miss  Minnie." 

"  I'm  sure  you  needn't  sneer  at  my  dainties," 


"UNDER  THE   GREENWOOD   DOUGU."         I57 

says  Minnie.  "  You  liave  done  full  justice  to 
them." 

Presently  the  last  rays  of  sunlight  disappear 
from  the  crest  of  the  hills,  and  then  the  little  party 
agree  that  it  is  time  to  think  of  preparing  to  go 
home.  Flora  rises  and  walks  to  the  spring.  She 
has  not  been  here  before  since  Harry  went  away, 
and  it  seems  to  her  as  if  all  the  changes  which  the 
intermediate  time  has  wrought  are  mirrored  in  the 
crystal  water  at  her  feet — water  in  which  she  saw 
her  face  last  when  it  was  two  years  younger.  She 
bends  and  looks  at  it  now,  a  little  wistfully  ;  and 
as  she  does  so,  another  face  suddenly  appears,  re- 
flected beside  her  own.  The  last  time  that  she 
bent  over  the  water  in  this  way,  it  was  Harry's 
that  she  saw — now  it  is  Charlton's  !  The  acci- 
dent startles  her,  as  trivial  things  of  the  kind  often 
do  startle  those  least  inclined  to  regard  them. 
She  turns  quickly. 

"  How  did  you  come  here  ?  "  she  asks.  "  T 
lieard  no  step.  You — you  surprised  mo  very 
much." 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  says  Charlton — Avho  sees,  to 
his  surprise,  that  she  is  seriously  moved — "  I  did 
not  think  of  surprising  you.  I  approached,  and 
seeing  you  looking  into  the  water,  I  looked  also 
involuntarily.  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that 
you  could  not  hear  my  step  on  this  soft  turf,  and 
would  therefore  be  startled  at  seeing  my  face." 

"  Pray  excuse  me — I  should  not  have  spoken 


158  A  SmiMER  IDYL. 

SO  hastily,"  she  says,  bhisbing.     "  I  am  not  often 
nervous,  but — I  was  nervous  just  tben." 

"  And  I  was  to  blame.  Don't  think  of  it  any 
more.  I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  can  climb  that 
hill  to  see  the  sunset.  I  am  sure  there  must  be  a 
fine  view  from  the  top." 

"  I — don't  think  I  can,"  she  answers  hesitating- 
ly. A  sense  of  constraint  with  Charlton  comes 
over  her — why,  she  scarcely  knows.  Perhaps  the 
cause  is  in  a  look  she  catches  on  Sunderland's  face 
— a  look  of  restrained  yet  significant  intelligence  ; 
or  perhaps  it  comes  from  that  accidental  reflection 
in  the  spring.  It  is  diflicult  to  say  how  the  feel- 
ing originates,  but  it  certainly  exists,  as  she  says  : 
"  The  ascent  is  very  steep,  and  I  believe  I  am  tired." 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  too  steep  for  you," 
Charlton  says,  "but  J  shall  try  it.  Judging  from 
these  clouds  floating  above,  the  sunset  must  be 
gorgeous." 

He  goes  off  without  saying  anything  more, 
and  Flora  thinks  again — as  she  has  thought  before 
— that  his  tact  and  consideration  are  perfect. 
Then  she  accuses  herself  of  having  been  brusque 
and  unkind  for  no  reason  whatever,  and  so  sits 
down  depressed  and  despondent.  She  sees  Charl- 
ton, Mr.  Martin,  and  the  rest  begin  the  ascent  of 
the  hill.  Sunderland  does  not  accompany  them. 
He  saunters,  instead,  up  to  her. 

"  You  must  be  surely  out  of  practice,  Floy, 
to  consider  that  hill  too  steep  for  climbing,"  he 


"UNDER   THE   GREENWOOD   BOUGH."        159 

says.  "I  am  sure  you  used  to  climb  it  like  a 
deer." 

"  No,  I  am  not  out  of  practice,"  answers  Flora  ; 
*'  l»ut  I  don't  feel  like  the  exertion — that  is  all." 

"  Neither  do  I — since  you  don't,"  he  says,  with 
a  well-satisfied  air,  seating  himself  on  the  rocks 
by  her  side. 

At  this  moment  it  chances  that  Charlton  turns 
his  head  and  glances  down  into  the  glen.  lie  did 
not  turn  to  look  at  Flora,  but  she  feels  as  if  he  did. 
It  suddenly  occurs  to  her  that  he  will  think  she 
staid  to  be  with  Sunderland,  and  the  thought 
sends  the  blood  in  warm  tide  to  her  face.  "  Pray 
go,  Harry  ! "  she  says,  in  an  almost  imploring 
tone.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  you  are  de- 
priving yourself  of  the  sunset  to  stay  with  me." 

"  But  suppose  I  would  rather  stay  with  you  ?  " 
says  Harry,  composedly.  "You  credit  me  with 
more  taste  for  sunsets  than  I  possess." 

"  You  said  yesterday  that  you  admired  them 
exceedingly." 

"  So  I  do  when  you  are  with  me.  You  don't 
surely  need  to  be  reminded  of  those  lines  in  your 
favorite  song  : 

"  *  \Ve  feel  how  the  blest  charms  of  Nature  improve 
When  we  see  them  reflected  in  eyes  that  we  love.'  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  in  that  way  ! " 
says  Flora,  with  impatience.  "  It  is  nonsense — 
and  I  don't  like  nonsense  ! " 


160  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

"  Then  you've  changed  amazingly,"  says  Harry. 
"  But  what  I  said  was  not  nonsense  at  all.  That 
is  your  mistake." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  care  to  argue  about  it.  Go, 
like  a  good  boy,  and  look  at  the  sunset." 

"  I'll  go  if  you  will  come,  or  if  you  seriously 
want  to  be  rid  of  me  ;  but,  honestly,  I  don't  care 
a  fig  for  the  sunset." 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  improved  in  taste 
since  you  went  away,"  says  Flora,  who  has  decided 
that  to  follow  with  Harry  will  be  (in  Charlton's 
eyes)  exactly  the  same  as  if  she  remained  at  the 
spring  with  him.  Of  course  none  of  this  consid- 
eration would  be  necessary  but  for  the  memory 
of  her  unfortunate  confession  at  Caesar's  Head — 
unfortunate,  because  she  fancies  that  Charlton  in- 
terprets all  her  actions  now  in  the  light  of  it. 

"  You  are  mistaken  again,"  says  Harry,  in  an- 
swer to  her  last  speech.  "  My  taste  is  neither 
worse  nor  better  than  it  was  when  I  went  away. 
I  should  have  taken  your  society  in  preference  to 
a  sunset  then,  just  as  I  take  it  now." 

"  Your  memory  of  things  before  you  went 
away  is  better  than  mine,"  says  Flora — not  quite 
sincerely,  it  is  to  be  feared.  "  See  the  sunset  ra- 
diance on  those  clouds  yonder  !  Is  it  not  beau- 
tiful ?  " 

"  Yery  fine  !  "  says  Harry,  glancing  carelessly 
at  the  refulgent  masses  of  cumulous  vapor.  "But 
I  wonder  if  you  mean  what  you  say  ?    I  wonder 


"UNDER   THE   GREEXWOOD   BOUGH."        161 

if  my  memory  is  better  than  yoiu's  of  some  things 
that  occurred  before  I  went  away  ?  " 

"Very  likely  it  is,"  says  Flora,  outwardly 
calm  in  exact  proportion  to  her  inward  disturb- 
ance— a  rare  and  happy  faculty  which  some  tem- 
peraments possess. 

"  Turn  your  head,"  says  Harry,  "  and  you  will 
see  on  the  beech  behind  you  the  record  of  some- 
thing which  I  at  least  have  never  forgotten.  Do 
you  mean  that  you  have  done  so  ?  " 

Flora  does  not  turn  her  head,  but  she  knows 
what  he  means.  On  the  silvery  beech-bark  are 
carved  the  initials  of  their  names,  encircled  by  a 
true-lover's  knot.  IIow  well  she  remembers  the 
last  day  they  were  here  together,  when,  with  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  she  watched  him  carve  it  !  There 
was  nothing  explicitly  said — but  how  well  they 
understood  each  other  !  "  The  tree  will  be  our 
witness,"  Harry  had  said.  And  now  they  are 
once  more  here  together,  with  the  silent  yet  elo- 
quent tree  flinging  its  rustling  depths  of  shade 
over  them.  And  Flora  looks  at  him  and  says, 
"  That  was  childish  folly.  Why  do  you  speak 
of  it  ?  " 

"  Childish  folly  !  "  he  repeats.  "  By  Jove  ! 
we  were  rather  mature  children.  You  were  elidi- 
teen  and  I  was  twenty-two.  If  that  is  not  old 
enough  for  one  to  know  one's  own  mind — " 

He  stops  suddenly,  for  she  extends  her  hand 
and  lays  it  on  his  arm.     "  Hush,   Harry  !  "  she 
11 


162  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

says.  "  Tills  is  folly  which  has  not  childishness 
to  excuse  it.  You  did  not  know  your  own  mind 
then  any  more  than  you  know  it  now.  Don't 
think  I  mean  to  say  anything  harsh.  No  doubt 
you  will  be  stable  enough  some  day ;  but  the 
time  for  it  has  not  come  yet.     That  is  all." 

"  That  is  not  all  !  "  says  Harry,  who  is  rousing 
out  of  his  usual  sunny-tempered  calm  to  absolute 
indignation.  "  Tou  must  not  think  that  I  am  to 
be  set  down  like  a  schoolboy  in  that  fashion.  I 
don't  mean  to  defend  my  conduct — I  know  I  have 
acted  like  a  fickle  fool — but  a  man  is  often  forced 
to  learn  what  is  true  by  testing  what  is  false.  I 
have  learned.  I  was  certain  of  that  before  I  saw 
you — I  am  more  certain  now.  I  would  not  try  to 
bind  you  by  a  promise  before  I  went  away,  be- 
cause I  was  not  sure  of  myself.  Now  I  am  sure, 
and  now — with  our  beech-tree  for  witness  again — 
I  beg,  Flora,  dear  Flora,  for  your  promise.  Your 
promise,  do  I  say  ?     I  beg  for  yourself  !  " 

"  O  Harry  !  "  says  Flora.  For  a  moment  it  is 
all  that  she  can  say.  She  turns  away  her  face, 
that  he  may  not  see  the  tears  which  gather  so 
thickly  in  her  eyes  that  she  cannot  distinguish  a 
feature  of  the  landscape.  A  little  while  ago  they 
would  have  been  tears  of  joy  —  now  they  are 
tears  of  a  strange,  sad  regret  that  this,  which 
might  once  have  meant  happiness,  has  been  de- 
layed too  late.  Harry,  who  has  very  confident 
anticipations  of  what  her  answer  will  be,  is  great- 


"UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD   BOUGH."        163 

ly  astonished  when,  with  something  like  a  sob, 
she  says,  "  You  might  have  spared  me  this." 

"  What  is  there  in  it  that  I  might  have  spared 
you  ?  "  he  asks.  "  Surely  you  knew  it  long  ago. 
I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart  when  I  went  away, 
and  held  myself  as  much  bound  to  you  as  if  we 
had  exchanged  vows  as  betrothed  lovers." 

"  Harry  !  "  she  says  again — but  the  tone  of 
her  voice  is  changed  now.  She  turns  and  looks 
at  him.  Tears  are  still  hanging  on  her  lashes, 
but  in  the  dewy  eyes  there  is  a  startled  gleam. 
"  Harry,"  she  says,  gravely,  "  I  don't  think  you 
know  what  you  are  saying.  It  is  impossible  that 
you  could  have  felt  yourself  in  any  manner  bound 
to  me  when  you  went  away." 

"  By  Heaven,  I  did  !  "  cries  Harry.  "  And  I 
considered  that  in  the  same  manner  you  were 
bound  to  me." 

"  I  think  not,"  answers  Flora,  calmly.  "  I  am 
glad  to  think  that  we  were  not  bound  in  the  least. 
I  have  done  you  the  justice  to  remember  that  al- 
ways, Harry  ;  and  you  do  yourself  injustice  when 
you  try  to  make  me  believe  differently." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  thinking  of  Miss  Preston," 
says  Harry,  feeling,  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  recol- 
lection, that  he  has  overshot  his  mark  and  said  a 
little  too  much. 

"  Yes,  of  Miss  Preston,"  Flora  answers.  "  I 
should  not  like  to  believe  that  you  felt  yourself 
in  any  manner  bound  to  me  when  you  were  in 


164  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

love  with — perhaps  engaged  to — her.  It  would 
not  have  been  treating  either  of  us  very  fairly,  do 
you  think  ?  But  I  am  sure  you  could  not  have 
done  such  a  thing.  It  is  only  because  you  are 
here — in  the  midst  of  scenes  which  revive  old 
fancies — that  you  imagine  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  I  am  not  so  volatile  as  you  suppose,"  says 
Harry,  injured  and  obstinate.  "  I  did  feel  myself 
bound  to  you,  and  I  should  not  have  made  a  fool 
of  myself  with  Gertrude  Preston  if  I  had  not  been 
assured  of  your  indifference  to — old  fancies." 

"  My  indifference  !  "  says  Flora,  with  a  gasp. 
"  How  could  you  possibly  be  assured  of  that  ?  " 

Harry  hesitates.  He  is  confused  at  the  unex- 
pected turn  which  the  conversation  has  taken,  and 
for  the  life  of  him  he  cannot  decide  whether  it  is 
better  to  be  reticent  or  candid.  But  he  is  aware 
that  Flora  regards  his  last  assertion  incredulous- 
ly, and  he  is  anxious  to  make  her  understand  with 
w^hat  high-minded  virtue  he  has  acted. 

"  If  you  must  know,"  he  answers,  finally,  "  I 
told  Charlton,  when  he  came  here,  to  discover  if 
possible  how  you  felt  toward  me  ;  and  he  wrote 
positively  that  he  was  sure  you  only  cared  for  me 


as  a — " 


He  breaks  off  abruptly,  for  Flora's  face  tells 
him  what  a  blunder  he  has  made.  Never  has  he 
seen  it  wear  such  a  look  before.  The  blue  eyes 
expand,  and  flash  on  him  a  glance  in.  which  amaze- 
ment, indignation,  and  scorn  are  mingled.     Then 


"UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  BOUGH."        165 

she  rises,  before  lie  can  say  one  word  to  detain 
her,  and  walks  away. 

Not  far.  Only  to  where  one  of  the  surround- 
ing hills  shelves  down  in  an  abrupt  cliff,  and 
where  there  is  an  escarpment  that  she  knows  well 
— a  flowery  ledge  on  which  she  formerly  loved  to 
climb  and  sit.  She  bends  her  face  do\vn  on  this, 
and  bursts  into  such  passionate  tears  of  anger,  and 
grief,  and  mortification,  as  have  never  come  from 
her  eyes  before.  It  seems  almost  more  than  she 
can  bear  !  That  Harry  should  have  cared  for 
her  so  little  as  to  send  a  stranger  to  pry  into  the 
most  sacred  secret  of  her  heart ;  and  that  this 
stranger  should  have  been  Charlton,  to  whom  she 
confessed  everything  !  There  are  no  words  to 
describe  the  resentment,  the  sense  of  having  been 
deceived  and  outraged,  which  possesses  her  ! 

"  Flora,"  says  Harry,  coming  to  her  side  full 
of  the  deepest  concern,  "  what  have  I  done  or  said 
that  you  should  treat  me  like  this  ?  I  can  explam 
everything.     If  you  will  only  listen — " 

"  Listen  ! "  she  says,  drawing  back  from  the 
touch  of  his  hand.  "  I  have  heard  more  than 
enough  already — far  more  than  I  can  ever  forget. 
Go,  Harry.  There  is  nothing  to  be  explained.  I 
see  it  all.  You  fancied  your  honor  was  bound  to 
me,  and  you  wanted  to  be  set  free.  Ah,  if  you 
had  only  trusted  me,  if  you  had  only  written  one 
word,  if  you  had  only  spared  me  an  indignity  I 
can  never  forget  or  forgive —    As  it  is,  there  is 


166  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

nothing  to  be  said.  Pray  go,  and  leave  me 
alone." 

"  Go  and  leave  you  angry  with  me,  like  this  ! 
That  is  asking  too  much.  Flora,  on  my  honor,  I 
never  thought  such  things  as  you  fancy.  I  wanted 
to  know  the  truth,  and — " 

"  And  you  had  not  courage  enough  to  ask  me 
for  it  ! "  she  says,  turning  her  face  around  Tvdth 
an  absolute  blaze  of  scorn  and  indignation  in  her 
eyes. 

"  How  could  I  ask  you  for  it  ?  There  are 
some  things  a  man  cannot  ask." 

"  Then  he  should  be  ashamed  to  send  another 
man — like  a  spy — to  discover  them." 

"  Flora  !  "  says  Harry.  He  is  amazed  to  the 
degree  of  absolute  consternation.  In  his  wildest 
dreams  he  never  imagined  such  capabilities  of 
passion  in  his  gentle  cousin  as  she  is  now  display- 
ing. "  What  a  fool  I  was  to  say  anything  about 
the  matter  !  "  he  thinks. 

But  this  thought — like  many  wise  and  witty 
ones — comes  too  late  to  be  of  service.  Flora 
takes  her  hat,  and  ties  it  on  with  trembling  hands. 
Then  she  says,  "  I  am  going  home." 

"  Of  course,  I  shall  come  with  you,"  he  an- 
swers. 

"  No,"  she  says  ;  "  I  beg  that  you  will  not.  I 
prefer  to  go  alone." 

"  Are  you  so  angry  with  me  ?  "  he  asks.  "  Floy, 
this  is  not  like  you,"  he  goes  on,  taking  one  of 


"OH,  MY  COUSIX,  SriALLOW-HEARTED."      167 

the  small,  tremulous  hands.  "  In  all  our  quarrels 
you  never  refused  to  forgive  me  when  I  begged 
— as  I  do  now — for  pardon." 

She  draws  her  hand  from  his  clasp  and  darts 
away,  leaving  the  glen  now  as  she  left  it  two 
years  before — in  tears. 

Harry  does  not  wait  to  be  assailed  by  the 
questions  of  the  party  descending  the  hill.  He 
follows  Flora — keeping  her  figure  in  sight  until 
she  reaches  the  familiar  river-path.  Then  he 
turns  into  a  pine  hollow,  throws  himself  at  length 
on  the  carpet  of  dry  and  fragrant  needles,  lights 
a  cigar,  and  proceeds  to  meditate. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  on,    MY    COUSIN,    SHALLOW-HEAETED." 

Flora  is  not  seen  again  that  evening.  When 
the  others  reach  the  house,  they  are  informed  that 
she  has  retii'ed  to  her  room  with  a  severe  head- 
ache. This  is  felt  on  all  sides  to  be  singular, 
since  she  is  seldom  a  victim  of  this  common  fem- 
inine malady ;  but  only  Charlton  suspects  of 
what  cause  the  headache  may  be  an  effect.  In- 
deed, his  suspicion  is  resolved  into  a  certainty  by 
Sunderland's  absence.  After  the  merriment  of 
the  afternoon,  general  lassitude  is  the  order  of  the 
evening,  and  most  of  the  party  are  assembled  on 


168  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

the  piazza  in  the  broad,  histrous  moonlight  when 
that  young  gentleman  is  finally  seen  slowly  ap- 
proaching the  house. 

"Well,  Harry,"  says  Colonel  Tyrrell,  as  he 
drops  into  a  chair,  without  uttering  a  word,  "  we 
began  to  think  that  you  had  turned  gypsy  in  ear- 
nest.    "Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  Smoking  on  the  river-bank,"  answers  Harry. 
"  It  is  very  pleasant  there  just  now.  The  current 
is  so  clear  and  placid,  I  was  half -minded  to  go  in 
for  a  swim." 

"  Just  the  thing ! "  says  George  eagerly. 
"We'll  try  it  at  bedtime — and  sleep  like  tops 
afterward." 

"  Some  of  us  will  sleep  like  tops  without  it," 
says  Minnie  with  a  yawn.  "Harry,  what  gave 
Floy  a  headache  ?  We  left  her  in  the  glen  with 
you,  and  the  first  thing  we  are  told  when  we  come 
home  is  that  she  has  gone  to  her  room  with  a  head- 
ache." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  answers  Harry  ;  "  but 
I  am  unable  to  imagine  what  could  have  given 
her  a  headache — unless  it  was  some  of  George's 
jokes." 

"  I  don't  think  they  were  heavy  enough  for 
that,"  says  George,  good-naturedly.  "But  what 
made  you  both  disappear  so  fast  when  you  saw  us 
coming  ?  " 

"Because  we  wanted  a  quiet  walk,"  replies 
Harry,  who  has  as  little  regard  for  veracity — when 


"OH,  MY   COUSLV,  SHALLOW-HEARTED."     169 

veracity  does  not  answer  his  purj^ose — as  any- 
other  man. 

Soon  after,  the  boys  go  away  for  a  swim,  in- 
viting Harry  to  aceomjjany  them.  He  declines. 
"  It  would  be  pleasant,"  he  says,  "  if  it  were  not 
for  the  exertion  required  ;  but  I  feel  too  indolent 
for  that."  So  he  remains,  lying  idly  back  in  his 
chair,  and  bearing  no  part  in  the  conversation 
which  the  other  gentlemen  Sustain.  This  conver- 
sation is  not  veiy  absorbing  in  its  nature,  and  pres- 
ently Mr.  Martin  follows  the  boys.  At  ten  o'clock 
Colonel  Tyrrell,  according  to  his  usual  custom,  re- 
tires ;  and  then  Sunderland  speaks  : 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  are  inclined  to  go  to  your 
virtuous  slumbers  at  such  an  hour  as  this,  Charl- 
ton. Come,  let  us  stroll  down  to  the  river.  I've 
a  few  words  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  may  as  well  light  another  cigar,  then,"  says 
Charlton  with  a  slight  sigh. 

The  cigar  is  lighted,  and  they  take  their  way, 
in  the  balmy  white  moonlight,  toward  the  bridge. 
On  it  they  pause.  The  river  flows  below  with 
glancing  light  on  every  rij^ple  ;  the  trees  di'oop 
motionless  with  glistening  leaves  ;  the  -svide-spread- 
ing  fields,  the  hills,  the  mountains,  all  stand  dis- 
tinct— yet  glorified — in  the  silver  radiance.  The 
beauty  of  the  night  makes  Charlton  recollect  much 
such  another.  "A  month  acjo  I  was  on  Csesar's 
Head,"  he  thinks  ;  and  as  he  thinks  it,  his  com- 
panion's tones  break  on  the  soft  stillness. 


170  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 


(C 


I  made  an  awful  blunder  this  afternoon, 
Charlton.  I  wonder  if  you  can  imagine  what  it 
was  ?  " 

"Not  much  difficulty  about  that,"  Charlton 
answers.  "  You  offered  your  hand  and  your  heart, 
and  anything  else  you  had  about  you,  to  your 
cousin — too  precipitately." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  too  precipitately  ?  " 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  You  have  been 
away  two  years,  and  you  have  been  in  love  with 
another  woman.  You  ought  to  have  effaced  those 
facts  from  her  memory  before  you  fired  a  declara- 
tion like  a  broadside  at  her." 

"  I  did  not  think  of  firing  a  declaration  like  a 
broadside,"  says  Sunderland,  slightly  piqued.  "  I 
only  spoke  of  the  past.  It  was  almost  impossible 
to  avoid  doing  so  in  that  glen." 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  doing  so,"  remarks 
the  Mentor,  rolling  out  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  It  would  seem  not ;  but  harm  came  of  it,  as 
you  shall  hear."  Then  he  relates  with  sufficient 
accuracy  all  that  occurred  in  the  glen,  not  omitting 
the  crowning  blunder  when  he  told  Flora  that  he 
had  commissioned  Charlton  to  report  how  much 
she  cared  for  him. 

At  this  Charlton  takes  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth  and  looks  at  the  speaker  with  amazement, 
"  By  Heaven,  Sunderland  !  "  he  says  ;  "  you  don't 
seriously  mean  that  you  told  her  that  f  " 

"  Yes,    I    do  ! "    answers    Sunderland.      "  Of 


"OH,  MY   COUSIN,  SH.VLLOW-nEARTED."     171 

course  it  was  a  blunder,  and  one  which,  if  I  had 
been  cooler,  I  should  never  have  committed  ;  but 
it  came  altogether  from  my  eagerness  to  explain 
my  entanglement  with  Gertrude  Preston." 

"I  could  not  have  conceived  that  you  were 
such  a  fool !  "  says  Charlton,  relieving  his  feelings 
by  flinging  his  cigar  into  the  river. 

Sunderland  does  not  resent  this  plain  speaking. 
On  the  contrary,  he  agrees  that  he  icas  a  fool,  and 
says  as  much  with  despondent  humility.  Then 
he  describes  the  manner  in  which  Flora  received 
the  information,  and  Charlton  feels  that  she  must 
have  been  moved  in  no  ordinary  manner  to  display 
so  much  passion  and  indignation. 

"To  think  that,  after  all  these  years,  you 
should  know  your  cousin  no  better  than  that ! " 
he  says.  "  Why,  I — I,  in  two  months — have 
learned  to  understand  her  better." 

"You've  had  nothing  to  do  but  study  her," 
says  Sunderland  impatiently,  "and  you  are  an 
observer  of  character  by  trade.  But  I  ought  to 
have  knowii  better  on  general  principles.  I  con- 
fess that." 

"  It  is  rather  late  to  confess  it,"  says  the  other, 
grimly.  "  Unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  you 
have  done  more  mischief  than  you  can  readily 
mend." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  asks  Sunderland.  I 
don't  believe  Flora  will  bear  malice — she  never 
did." 


172  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

"  Bear  malice — stuff  !  Who  is  talking  of  bear- 
ing malice  ?  She'll  forgive  you,  no  doubt ;  but 
she  will  not  forget  such  a  wound  to  her  heart,  or 
such  an  insult  to  her  pride.  And  you  must  needs 
draw  me  into  the  matter — as  if  it  was  not  enough 
that  I  undertook  such  a  fool's  errand  simply  to 
oblige  you  ! " 

"  It  doesn't  matter  about  you,"  says  Sunder- 
land, indifferently.  "  If  she  has  refused  you, 
there's  no  reason  to  care  what  she  thinks  of  you, 
I'm  sure." 

"  That  is  your  idea,  is  it  ?  But  to  my  mmd 
there  is  something  in  the  world  besides  love-mak- 
ing ;  and  I  should  have  liked  to  keep  Flora  Tyr- 
rell as  my  friend." 

"  And  do  you  honestly  think  she'll  resent  the 
matter  so  very  much  ?  " 

"  I  am  convinced  that  she  will.  What  your 
chances  may  be  with  her  after  this,  I  don't  pretend 
to  say  ;  but  unless  she  is  very  unlike  other  women, 
she  will  never  forgive  me." 

And  this  is  not  merely  an  utterance  of  the 
moment,  but  remains  an  opinion  firmly  fixed  in 
Charlton's  mind.  After  he  has  at  length  got  rid 
of  Harry,  and  faces  the  matter  coolly  in  the  soli- 
tude of  his  own  chamber,  it  is  more  than  ever  the 
conclusion  to  which  his  reflections  point.  He 
knows  enough  of  Flora  to  understand  how  deeply 
she  is  wounded,  how  slow  she  will  be  to  condone 
such  an  offense  ;  but  he  also  fancies  that  he  knows 


"On,  MY   COUSIX,  SHALLOW-HEARTED."      I73 

enough  of  women  in  the  abstract  to  predicate 
with  certainty  that  she  will  finally  pardon  the  man 
she  loves,  and  will  visit  all  the  strength  of  her 
indignation  on  the  man  she  does  not  love — the 
man  who  (she  may  possibly  fancy)  gave  the  ad- 
vice that  kept  Harry  away,  in  order  that  the  field 
might  be  clear  for  his  o^vn  suit. 

The  next  morning  astonishment  fills  the  house- 
hold that  Flora  does  not  appear  at  breakfast. 
Minnie  takes  her  place,  and  answers  all  inquiries 
by  saying  that  "  Floy  does  not  feel  well  enough 
to  come  down.  She  is  feverish  and  has  a  sore 
throat." 

"  Just  what  I  expected  ! "  says  Colonel  Tyr- 
rell, while  Charlton  and  Sunderland  exchange  a 
quick  glance.  "  Now,  don't  let  me  hear  of  any 
more  g}T)sying  nonsense  !  There  is  no  possible 
reason  why  supper  should  be  better,  eaten  on  the 
ground  than  on  a  table." 

The  day  wears  away  in  rather  dull  fashion. 
Minnie  informs  every  one  that  "  Floy  has  a  dread- 
ful headache,"  so  all  sounds  are  subdued  ;  and  as 
Charlton  sits  in  his  own  room  writing,  he  could 
almost  fancy  that  the  house  is  deserted  or  under 
a  spell.  Usually  the  boys  laugh  and  whistle  and 
bound  up  and  down-stairs,  Xellie's  voice  is  heard, 
Minnie  sings,  the  notes  of  the  piano  sound.  Xow 
an  occasional  careful  footstep  is  all  that  is  heard. 
In  the  afternoon — Flora  being  still  reported 
"feverish" — George  goes  over  to   Brevard   and 


174  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

returns  Tvith  a  doctor.  This  gentleman  speaks 
lightly  of  the  malady.  "  Some  cold — a  slight 
fever — nervous  system  disordered,"  is  the  amount 
of  his  diagnosis.  He  prescribes  accordingly,  and 
departs. 

Flora's  indisposition  —  which  is  very  real, 
though  not  very  severe — continues  for  several 
days.  By  this  time  September  is  well  advanced, 
and  although  summer  gives  no  sign  of  drawing 
her  reign  to  an  end,  Charlton  feels  that  he  must 
go.  Already  he  has  delayed  his  departure  far  be- 
yond his  original  intention,  and  now  he  tells  him- 
self that  he  only  waits  to  see  Flora  once  more,  to 
touch  her  hand,  to  look  into  her  eyes,  to  say  if 
possible  one  word  in  his  defense,  and  then  to  make 
the  wrench  of  departure.  At  least  he  tells  him- 
seK  this,  until  a  day  comes  when  something  sug- 
gests that  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  he  went 
without  such  leave-taking ;  and  the  result  of  the 
thought  is  that  Nellie  brings  to  the  side  of  the 
couch  on  which  Flora  lies,  pale  and  languid,  the 
following  note  : 

"  My  Deae  Miss  Tykeell  : 

"  It  becomes  daily  more  necessary  that  I  should 
tear  myself  away  from  this  pleasant  resting-place, 
and  go  back  to  the  world  and  to  work.  I  should 
like  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  bidding  you  a  per- 
sonal farewell.  But  it  has  lately  struck  me  that 
perhaps  you  had  rather  be  spared  such  a  last  tax 


"On,  MY   COUSIN,  SHALLOW-nEARTED."     I75 

upon  your  kindness.  If  this  is  the  case,  may  I 
beg  you  to  say  so  frankly  ?  I  hope  you  know  me 
well  enough  to  be  aware  that  I  could  not  misin- 
terpret anything  you  might  say  or  do,  but  that, 
with  best  wishes  for  your  speedy  recovery,  I  am 
always  Faithfully  yours, 

"  Geoffeey  Charlton." 

The  answer  to  this  is  short  but  satisfactory  : 

"  Dear  Me.  Charlton  : 

"  I  shall  be  truly  sorry  if  you  leave  before  I 
am  well  enough  to  see  you.  I  hope  to  come  down 
to-morrow.  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Flora  Tyrrell." 

Flora  is  as  good  as  her  word,  and  comes  down 
the  next  day.  She  looks  frail  and  white,  and 
more  as  if  she  had  passed  through  a  long  illness 
than  a  trifling  indisposition.  On  some  tempera- 
ments the  sickness  of  a  day  or  an  hour  leaves  such 
traces  as  these  ;  but  they  are  generally  tempera- 
ments that  rally  as  quickly  as  they  fail.  There  is 
an  undefinable  change  of  expression  on  Flora's 
face  that  makes  Charlton  realize  that  her  sickness 
has  been  more  of  the  mind  than  the  body.  The 
eyes — which  seem  to  have  grown  larger — are  also 
graver,  the  tender  lips  are  more  firm,  the  gentle 
manner  a  shade  more  reserved.  It  is  only  to  Sun- 
derland and  himself  that  this  reserve  is  percepti- 


176  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

ble  ;  and  to  them  it  is  so  delicately  marked  tliat 
men  of  duller  perceptions  would  not  observe  it. 

They  observe  it,  however,  and  each  wonders 
how  much  the  other  is  conscious  of  it.  The  fam- 
ily are  assembled  in  the  sitting-room^  after  break- 
fast, and  Flora  says  with  a  smile  : 

"I  have  been  in  solitary  confinement  long 
enough  to  feel  that  it  is  agreeable  to  enter  society 
once  more.  If  I  were  sufficiently  strong,  I  would 
make  a  speech  of  thanks  for  all  the  kind  attentions 
I  have  received.  As  it  is,  you  must  all  be  good 
enough  to  believe  that  I  am  very  grateful  for  your 
birds  and  fish  and  other  pleasant  things." 

*'  We  tried  to  get  all  we  could  for  you,"  says 
Oscar,  constituting  himself  spokesman  for  the 
party.     "  Harry  shot  the  birds." 

"  And  they  were  excellent,"  says  Flora,  look- 
ing at  Harry. 

"  I  am  glad  you  liked  them,"  he  answers  a  lit- 
tle diffidently.  "  I  find  that  I  am  out  of  practice 
as  a  sportsman,  but  I  tried  a  gun  in  your  behalf." 

"We  must  get  up  a  deer-hunt,  Harry,"  says 
George.  "  Fanshaw  was  speaking  to  me  about 
it  yesterday.  What  a  pity  that  Mr.  Charlton  is 
going  away  so  soon  !  " 

"Are  you  going  soon,  Mr.  Charlton?"  Flora 
asks. 

"  I  have  made  my  arrangements  to  leave  to- 
morrow," he  answers,  "  and  this  time  I  think  that 
I  shall  certainly  go." 


*'0n,  MY   COUSIN,  SHALLOW-HEARTED."     I77 

"  If  you'll  wait  a  week  longer,  Charlton,  I'll  go 
with  you,"  says  Harry.  "  After  all,  you  know 
there  is  no  need  for  haste." 

"Xot  the  least  need  as  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned," answers  Charlton.  "  I  can  best  judge  of 
the  necessity  in  my  own  case,  however." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  you  were  thinking  of 
leaving  so  soon,  Harry,"  says  Colonel  Tyrrell, 
with  his  brow  clouding. 

"  Oh,"  says  Harry,  "  I  only  came  for  a  glimpse 
of  you  all.  Having  had  that,  I  might  as  well  take 
flight  again." 

"  Harry  is  bored,  papa,"  says  Minnie.  "  That 
is  what  is  the  matter." 

"  In  that  case,  perhaps  the  best  thing  that  he 
can  do  will  be  to  go,"  says  Colonel  Tyrrell,  rising 
and  walking  away. 

"  It  is  rather  a  dangerous  business  that  of  at- 
tempting to  interpret  what  you  don't  understand, 
Minette,"  says  Harry,  quietly.  "  Now,  Flora,  this 
is  not  very  interesting.  Can  we  do  or  say  any- 
thing to  amuse  you  ?  Should  you  like  some  read- 
ing ?  " 

"  Very  much,"  answers  Flora,  who  just  now 
prefers  anything  to  conversation. 

"  What  will  you  read  ?  "  asks  Charlton. 

"  *  The  Kartlily  Paradise,'  I  suppose,"  answers 
Sunderland,  going  to  the  table  and  taking  up  a 
volume  of  that  poem. 

He  returns  to  his  seat,  opens  the  book,  and  be- 
12 


178  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

gins  to  read  in  his  pleasant,  well-modulated  voice. 
By  degrees  the  circle  diminishes — as,  perhaps,  he 
intended  that  it  should.  The  boys  soon  depart, 
Nellie  slips  away,  and  presently  Minnie  is  sum- 
moned to  some  housekeeping  duty.  Only  Charl- 
ton is  left,  and  he  does  not  long  play  the  part  of 
Monsieur  de  Trop.  He  waits  until  Sunderland 
finishes  the  story  which  he  is  reading ;  then  he 
rises  to  excuse  himself,  and  leaves  the  room. 

"  By  Jove  !  how  glad  I  am  that  they  are 
gone  ! "  says  Harry,  closing  the  book  at  once. 
"  Now,  Floy,  you  must  be  very  good  to  me  in 
order  to  atone  for  all  the  anxiety  that  I  have  en- 
dured during  these  last  four  or  five  days." 

The  tug  of  war  comes  now.  Flora  knows  it, 
but  she  does  not  shrink.  Perhaps  she  has  pre- 
pared herself  for  this.  At  least  the  grave  blue 
eyes  meet  Sunderland's  very  calmly  as  she  says  : 
"  Why  have  you  been  enduring  anxiety  ?  I  do 
not  understand  for  what  I  have  to  atone." 

"  You  do  not  have  to  atone  for  anything,"  he 
answers.  "  If  there  is  atonement  to  be  made,  it 
falls  on  me.  And  I  am  ready  to  make  any  that 
will  cause  you  to  forget  my  folly,  and  will  give 
me  your  trust  again.  Floy,  I  am  going  to  tell  my 
whole  story  to  you — everything  that  has  occurred 
since  I  went  away.     Will  you  listen  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  gently,  "  I  will  listen  to 
anything  you  wish  to  tell  me." 

So,  bending  a  little  closer,  he  begins  to  tell  his 


"OH,  MY   COUSIN,  SHALLOW-HEARTED."      179 

story.  That  he  tells  it  well — making  the  very- 
best  of  it  in  every  way,  without  tangibly  trans- 
gressing truth  in  any  particular — it  is  impossible 
to  deny.  By  a  few  strokes  he  sketches  himself 
with  a  great  deal  of  skill,  conveying  the  impres- 
sion that  his  fancy  alone  wandered,  while  his 
heart  remained  true,  making  his  listener  realize 
the  flattered  vanity,  the  superficial  admiration, 
which  he  regarded  for  a  little  while  as  his  love 
for  Miss  Preston.  Then  he  touches  on  the  deli- 
cate ground  of  his  commission  to  Charlton  ;  tells, 
with  suitable  reservation,  how  it  was  given  and 
how  executed  ;  describes  the  rapid  cooling  of  his 
passion  for  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  engaged, 
and  then — half  unconsciously — betrays  that  it  was 
Miss  Dupont's  letter  which  turned  his  thoughts 
again  to  Flora  by  suggesting  a  vague  jealousy  of 
Charlton,  a  vague  doubt  that  the  latter  may  have 
been  mistaken  in  his  assurance  of  her  indifference. 
"  I  determined  to  come  and  see  for  myself  how 
matters  stood,"  says  Harry,  "  and  every  hour  that 
brought  me  nearer  to  you  seemed  to  bring  my 
heart  back  to  its  true  allesjiance.  I  bes^in  to  feel 
like  a  man  who  had  been  crazy  and  was  sane 
ajrain — who  had  been  drunk  and  was  sober.  The 
thought  of  you  was  like  pure  mountain  air — it 
brought  rest  and  refreshment.  When  I  saw  you 
— ah,  Floy,  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  felt  when  I  saw 
you  !  For  one  thing,  I  felt  I  had  been  an  ineffa- 
ble fool  !     Dear,  tell  me   that  I  have   not   lost 


180  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

everything  by  my  delay — that  I  have  not  come 
too  late  ! " 

He  holds  out  his  hands  eagerly,  the  handsome 
face  looks  imploringly  into  her  own.  That  he  is 
altogether  in  earnest  it  is  impossible  to  doubt. 
Flora  does  not  doubt  it.  She  reads  him  better 
than  he  has  read  himself,  and  with  a  sweet,  sad 
smile  she  says : 

"  No,  you  did  not  come  too  late.  I  am  glad 
now  that  you  did  not  come  earlier.  All  might 
have  been  different  then,  and  we  might  have 
made  a  worse  mistake  than  our  childish  folly  two 
years  ago.  Dear  Harry,  don't  you  see  that  what 
you  feel  for  me  is  only  the  result  of  old  associa- 
tion ?  It  is  not  strong,  nor  stable,  nor  independent 
of  other  things  ;  it  is  a  mere  fancy  which  will  pass 
as  it  has  returned — when  you  go  away." 

"  Flora  ! "  cries  Harry,  unable  to  credit  the 
testimony  of  his  own  ears.  He  seizes  her  hands, 
and  holds  them  in  a  vise-like  grasp.  "  It  is  im- 
possible that  you  can  mean  this,"  he  says  ;  "  it  is 
impossible  that  you  can  expect  me  to  receive  it  as 
final.  Flora,  you  forget  that  this  is  no  affair  of  a 
day  or  an  hour ;  you  forget  that  I  have  loved  you 
all  my  life,  and  that  the  associations  of  which  you 
speak  are  more  to  me  than  anything  else  in  the 
world  except  yourself.  You  must  understand  one 
thing  distinctly  :  my  life  is  in  your  hands.  If 
you  turn  me  adrift,  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  have  been 
cut  loose  from  every  anchor — every  hope  and  good 


"On,  MY   COUSIN,  SHALLOW-HEARTED."      181 

intention.     There  is  not  one  of  them  which  is  not 
and  has  not  always  been  associated  -svith  you." 

"And  will  not  be  associated  with  some  one 
else  in  the  time  to  come,"  says  Flora,  quietly. 
"  Ah,  Harry  !  why  do  you  not  know  yourself  bet- 
ter? A  little  while  hence  you  will  feel  how  right 
I  am  in  what  I  say  to-day.  You  are  fond  of  me  ; 
yes,  I  know  it  ;  and  just  now  you  fancy  that  you 
are  in  love  with  me.  But  that  is  a  mistake.  If  I 
were  foolish  enough  to  let  you  bind  yourself,  do 
you  know  what  would  follow  ?  You  would  go 
away,  and  in  a  little  while  some  one  else  would 
come  into  your  life  ;  you  would  fall  in  love  with 
her,  you  would  be  bound  by  your  honor  to  me, 
and  then — and  then — either  you  would  keep  your 
faith  at  a  cost  I  shall  never  exact,  or  you  would 
do  something  which  would  lower  you  more  in 
your  own  respect  than  sending  a  stranger  to  dis- 
cover how  much  your  cousin  cared  for  you." 

"  Floy  !  "  he  says,  in  a  half-suffocated  voice, 
"  you  have  not  forgiven  me  for  that  yet !  If  I 
could  only  make  you  understand — " 

"  I  think  I  understand  perfectly,"  Flora  inter- 
rupts. "  Forgive  you  ?  Yes,  I  am  reasonable 
enough  to  forgive  you  now,  though  I  think  you 
were  wrong.  Some  things  a  man  should  discover 
for  himself.  If  you  had  come,  or  even  if  you  had 
^Titten  frankly,  I  would  have  showed  you  that  I 
was  only  your  cousin." 

"  But  you  were  not  always  only  my  cousin," 


182  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

he  says,  quickly.  "  Two  years  ago — ah,  Flora  ! 
if  you  forget,  I  cannot." 

"  Forgetfulness  is  a  good  thing,"  she  says, 
very  quietly.  "If  you  remember  those  foolish 
times,  it  is  because  you  have  come  back,  after 
long  absence,  to  a  place  fraught  with  their  asso- 
ciations." 

"  I  remembered  them  before  I  came  back — I 
never  forgot  them."  (For  a  moment  he  honestly 
imagines  that  he  never  did.)  "Floy,"  he  goes  on, 
with  a  beseeching  passion  in  his  voice  that  thrills 
the  girl,  "  if  I  could  only  win  your  trust  again,  I 
am  sure  all  would  be  right.  You  could  not  send 
me  away.  For  the  sake  of  the  dear  old  times — 
foolish  though  you  may  call  them — you  would  try 
to  love  me  a  little,  and  I  would  try  to  make  that 
little  much." 

She  is  shaken  to  the  very  centre  of  her  soul — 
that  is  evident  from  her  pale  face — ^but  she  is  im- 
movable in  her  resolution.  "  Harry  !  "  she  cries, 
like  one  driven  to  bay,  "  I  cannot  !  Don't  say 
anything  more  !  You  mean  it  now,  but  I  know 
you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  I  know  that 
the  end  would  be  worse  than  it  has  been  already. 
One  or  both  of  us  would  be  wretched  for  life,  if  I 
yielded  to  you.  Harry,  my  cousin,  my  brother, 
my  dear,  dear  companion,  it  almost  breaks  my 
heart  to  give  you  even  the  shortest  pain.  For- 
give me,  forgive  me — ^but  it  must  be  so  ! " 

There  is  no  faltering  in  voice  or  look.     Tears 


"OH,  MY    COUSIN,  SHALLOW-HEARTED."      183 

fill  her  eyes,  and  she  clasps  her  hands  as  she  leans 
toward  him  ;  but  a  rock  could  sooner  fly  from  its 
base  than  any  words  alter  her  resolve.  He  sees, 
feels,  realizes  this.  It  is  borne  to  him  with  a  sud- 
den flash  of  intense  consciousness  that  he  has  lost 
his  opportunity,  and  lost  it  finally.  It  was  his  a 
little  while  ago — his  to  play  with,  to  hold  lightly, 
to  depreciate  in  the  security  of  possession.  Kow 
it  has  been  snatched  out  of  his  grasp,  and  placed 
beyond  his  reach  forever.  To  say  that  in  his  eyes 
it  has  increased  tenfold  in  value  by  this  process, 
is  only  to  state  something  familiar  to  all  who  ob- 
serv^e  human  nature.  The  possibilities  that  we 
have  lost  seem  more  rich  than  any  we  have 
grasped  ;  the  jewel  we  never  wore  shines  bright- 
est; the  happiness  we  never  tasted  seems  sweetest. 
That  which  might  have  been  and  yet  is  not — that 
which  we  cast  heedlessly  by,  little  knowing  its 
true  value — it  is  that  which  seems  to  us  most  sad 
among  all  the  sad  things  of  which  life  is  full.  No 
one  has  touched  this  strain  better  than  Robert 
Browning  in  some  of  his  minor  poems,  and  two 
lines  from  one  of  these  poems  comes  to  Harry's 
mind  as  he  sits,  gazing  almost  despaii'iugly  into 
his  cousin's  eyes  : 

"  This  could  but  have  happened  once, 
And  wc  missed  it,  lost  it  forever." 

*'  It  is  my  fault,"  he  says,  suddenly  breaking 
the  silence.     "  I  see  it  all.     I  have  been  a  fool. 


184  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

and  one  must  pay  the  penalty  of  folly.  I  have 
lost  the  best  chance  of  my  life,  and  I  have  only 
myself  to  blame.  If  I  had  come  sooner —  AYell, 
other  kingdoms  than  that  of  Heaven  are  lost  by 
laggards,  I  see.  Flora,  my  sweet  cousin,  I  think 
I  might  keep  straight  with  your  hand  to  guide 
me  ;  but  since  it  is  not  to  be — " 

He  stops  abruptly,  takes  her  into  his  arms, 
kisses  once,  twice,  thrice,  the  white  brow  where 
the  fair  hair  is  parted,  then  puts  her  back  in  the 
chair  and  leaves  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"O  LAST  KEGEET,  REGKET  CAN  DIE." 

Before  an  hour  has  passed,  Charlton  learns 
all  that  has  happened.  "  You  know  so  much  of 
the  story,  that  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to  give  you 
the  end,"  Harry  calmly  observes.  "I  have  told 
Flora  everything,  and  she  has  forgiven  me — and 
declined  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  me. 
So  I  think  I  shall  pack  my  trunk  and  leave  with 
you  to-morrow." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  asks  Charlton,  skepti' 
cally.  He  felt  so  sure  that  the  matter  would  end 
with  the  approved  reconciliation  scene,  that  he  is 
as  much  surprised  by  Flora's  decision  as  Sunder- 
land could  possibly  have  been.     "  You  have  made 


"0   LAST   REGRET,  REGRET   CAN  DIE."       185 

another  blunder,"  he  says,  impatiently,  "or  you 
have  misunderstood  your  cousin.  Something  is 
certainly  ^^Tong." 

"  Everything  is  T\Tong,"  answers  Harry,  "  but 
as  for  making  a  blunder — I  flatter  myself  I  am 
not  the  person  to  do  that  kind  of  thing  twice. 
And  as  for  misunderstanding  Flora — you  could 
as  soon  misunderstand  a  man  when  he  knocks  you 
down." 

"  There  is  some  mistake  in  the  matter,"  Charl- 
ton thinks — but  is  wise  enough  not  to  say.  "  Harry 
must  have  blundered  again.  It  is  impossible  that 
her  pride  can  be  so  much  stronger  than  her  love." 
Then  he  asks  aloud  :  "  Are  you  serious  in  thinking 
of  going  with  me  to-morrow?" 

"  Perfectly  serious.  Why  should  I  stay  here  ? 
I  hope  I  can  bear  disappointment  like  a  man,  but 
I  am  not  philosopher  enough  to  live  face  to  face 
with  it.  I  hardly  know  what  I  shall  say  to  my 
uncle  by  way  of  excuse." 

"I  have  found  in  my  journey  through  life," 
remarks  Charlton,  "  that  the  truth  is  generally 
the  best  and  the  safest  thing  to  say.  Your  uncle 
Tvill  have  cause  to  be  offended  if  you  go  away 
with  merely  an  ordinary  excuse  ;  but,  if  you  tell 
him  the  truth,  you  Avill  find  him,  I  am  sure,  reason- 
able and  kind.  Every  man  has  a  fellow-feeling 
for  a  man  in  such  a  position  as  yours." 

"  By  Jove,  so  I  will  !  "  says  Sunderland — and 
leaves  the  room. 


186  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

Colonel  Tyrrell  was  as  kind  and  reasonable  as 
Charlton  had  predicted,  but  more  deeply  disap- 
pointed than  can  be  readily  expressed.  The  plan 
which  had  failed  was  one  on  which  he  had  for 
many  years  set  his  heart  and  counted  confidently. 
He  feels  sure  that  for  the  failure  his  nephew  is 
solely  to  blame  ;  but  to  strike  a  man  who  is  al- 
ready down  by  saying  as  much  is  more  than  he 
can  do.  "  I  am  sony,  Harry,"  he  says,  "  very 
sorry  ;  but  Flora  of  course  knows  best.  I  don't 
deny  that  I  have  always  hoped  that  you  two 
might  marry.  Perhaps  it's  not  best  to  build  hopes 
that  depend  on  others  for  their  fulfillment.  I  shall 
not  try  to  detain  you  if  you  feel  that  you  must 
go.  But  you  have  always  a  son's  place  in  my 
heart  and  my  house  ;  remember  that." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  could  not  sooner  forget," 
says  Harry  ;  and  then  their  hands  meet  in  that 
grasp  which  expresses  so  much. 

Flora,  meanwhile,  has  gone  to  her  room,  and 
does  not  appear  again  until  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Then  she  comes  down,  and  is  met  by  her  father, 
who  asks  if  she  does  not  think  a  drive  will  do  her 
good.  "  I  don't  propose  a  ride,"  he  says,  "  be- 
cause, in  the  first  place,  I  hardly  think  you  are 
strong  enough  for  it,  and,  in  the  second  place,  the 
saddle-horses  are  all  gone.  Harry  and  George 
have  taken  two,  and  Minnie  and  Oscar  the  others. 
If  you  care  to  drive,  I'll  order  the  carriage." 

"  No,  papa,  the  wagonette,"  she   interposes. 


"0   L.VST   REGREr,  REGRET   CAN   DIE."       187 

"That  is  open,  and  one  wants  as  much  of  this 
delightful  air  as  one  can  get." 

The  wagonette  is  accordingly  ordered.  Charl- 
ton and  Nellie  are  invited  to  accompany  them, 
and  presently  they  are  bowling  through  the  val- 
ley, with  the  soft,  fresh  breeze  coming  from  the 
far-off  azure  heights. 

The  charm  of  the  winsome  vallev,  the  magical 
expanse  of  receding  heights,  the  reposeful  green- 
ness of  meadow  and  field  and  hill,  all  seem  inten- 
sified to  Charlton  by  the  fact  of  his  approaching 
de2)arture.  He  is  as  little  inclined  to  sentimental- 
ism  as  a  man  can  be,  but  he  has  found  something 
here  which  he  knows  he  is  not  likely  to  find  soon, 
if  ever,  again  ;  and  the  knowledge  gives  a  pang 
to  his  parting  which  the  mere  beauty  of  Nature 
would  be  unable  to  cause. 

"  How  strange  that  I  have  been  here  only  two 
months  !  "  he  says  after  a  while,  partly  addressing 
Colonel  Tyrrell,  partly  speaking  to  himself.  "  I 
feel  as  if  it  had  been  a  much  longer  time.  I  have 
gl'o^vn  to  regard  these  scenes  with  the  familiar 
affection  of  an  old  friend." 

"  AVe  shall  expect  you  to  say  a  good  word  for 
the  country  when  you  go  out  into  the  world," 
says  Colonel  Tyrrell,  touching  up  his  horses.  "  It 
needs  to  be  better  known." 

"I  shall  say  all  that  I  can,"  Charlton  answers, 
"  but  that  may  not  be  much.  I  am  not  one  of  the 
people  whose  deepest  impressions  crystallize  read- 


188  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

ily  into  descriptive  phrases.  I  like  the  spirit  of 
those  lines  of  Moore's  which  you  sometimes  sing, 
Miss  TyiTell : 

"  '  Sweet  Innisf alien,  fare  thee  well ! 
May  calm  and  sunshine  long  bo  thine ; 
How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell, 
While  but  to  feel  how  fair  be  mine.'  " 

"  It  is  SO  much  to  be  able  to  feel,"  says  Flora, 
smiling,  "  that  it  might  seem  unreasonable  to  ask 
for  more  ;  but  I  am  sure  you  could  describe  it  if 
you  chose." 

"  Few  things  are  more  difficult  than  to  describe 
with  truth  and  simplicity,"  he  says.  "  We  should 
all  be  artists  if  we  could  paint  the  common  world 
which  lies  around  us  cis  it  is.  Besides  " — uncon- 
sciously his  voice  sinks  a  little,  so  as  to  be  audible 
only  to  Flora — "  how  could  I  describe  the  charm 
which  this  summer  has  had  for  me  by  putting  it 
in  type  for  indifferent  eyes  to  read  ?  " 

Flora  is  spared  reply,  for  at  this  moment  Col- 
onel Tyrrell  di*aws  up  the  horses.  "  Floy,"  he 
says,  "  I  am  going  down  into  the  meadow  wheTe 
those  men  are  at  work.  You  and  Mr.  Charlton 
can  extend  your  drive,  and  come  back  for  me  in 
half  an  hour  or  so.  There's  a  fine  view  from  the 
top  of  that  hill  over  yonder,  and  a  good  road  leads 
up  to  it." 

The  hill  chances  to  be  the  one  where  Flora 
and  Harry  paused  to  see  the  sunset  on  the  first 
evening   after   the   arrival   of   the   latter.      Miss 


"0  LAST   REGRET,  REGRET   C.VN   DIE."      189 

Tyrrell  looks  at  it  with  a  slightly  troubled  expres- 
sion, but  she  only  says,  "  Yes,  papa,"  as  her  father 
hands  the  reins  to  Charlton,  and  steps  down. 

They  drive  on  for  a  minute  before  that  gentle- 
man speaks.  Then  he  says  :  "  Where  shall  we  go  ? 
I  see  you  don't  fancy  the  idea  of  that  hill,  and  I 
don't  care  a  fig  for  the  view." 

"  What  a  close  observer  you  are  !  "  says  Flora, 
flushing.  "  I  did  not  fancy  the  idea  of  going  to 
the  hill  at  first,  but — it  does  not  matter.  Drive 
on,  please." 

"  But  why,  if  you  feel  the  least  disinclination 
toward  doing  so  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  " — she  hesitates.  "  Well,  if  you  must 
know,  because  I  don't  choose  to  yield  to  the  dis- 
inclination. You  told  me  once  that  I  was  morbid, 
and  I  fear  you  were  right ;  so  I  have  determined 
to  conquer  such  weakness." 

"  I  think  I  said  only  that  you  were  inclined  to 
be  morbid  ;  and  I  retract  that  now.  It  was  pre- 
sumption in  me  ever  to  have  said  such  a  thing." 

"  It  was  quite  a  true  thing,  I  am  sure.  Turn 
here  to  the  right — into  the  woods." 

Into  the  woods,  full  of  dreamy,  slanting  sun- 
shine and  bosky  depths  of  shadow,  the  road  leads 
them. 

AVlien  they  reach  the  summit  of  the  hill  and 
pause  for  the  view,  Nellie  insists  upon  being  set 
doA\ni,  in  order  that  she  may  search  for  ferns, 
which  is  one  of  her  favorite  pursuits.     AVhile  she 


190  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

is  engaged  in  this  manner,  Charlton  looks  at  Flora. 
"I  wonder,"  he  says  in  a  low  voice,  "if  I  may- 
venture  to  speak  to  yon  of  something  which  has 
annoyed  you  very  much — something  in  which, 
unfortunately,  my  name  bore  a  share  ?  I  should 
not  think  of  doing  so  if  I  were  not  going  away  so 
soon,  and  if  this  were  not  probably  my  last  oppor- 
tunity to  set  myself  right  in  your  estimation." 

She  starts  a  little  when  he  speaks  first,  but 
soon  recovers  herself,  and  looks  at  him  without 
any  change  of  color,  with  the  same  grave,  gentle 
regard  which  puzzled  Sunderland  earlier  in  the 
day. 

"You  may  speak,  if  you  care  to  do  so,"  she 
answers,  "but  it  is  not  necessary.  I  understand 
everything,  and  I  have  no  right  to  blame  you — 
farther  than  to  think  that  you  should  have  told 
me  frankly  upon  what  errand  you  came  here." 

"  I  did  not  come  upon  any  errand,"  he  says, 
quickly.  "  It  is  you  who  misconceive  the  impor- 
tance of  all  that  passed  between  Sunderland  and 
myself.  You  know,  I  hope,  that  nothing  would 
induce  me  to  deceive  you ;  you  also  know  that  I 
have  no  possible  reason  for  endeavoring  to  repre- 
sent youi'  cousin's  conduct  in  a  better  light — " 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  You  have  reason  !  You  remember — ah,  I  am 
sure  of  it^the  folly  I  uttered  to  you  at  Cassar's 
Head,  and  you  think  that  it  might  be  better  for 
me  to  be  deceived  than  to  be  unhappy.     But  I " 


"0  LAST   REGRET,   REGRET   CAN   DIE."      191 

— she  pauses  an  instant — "  do  not  think  so.  I  am 
glad  to  have  learned  the  truth,  though  I  cannot 
thank  you  for  it.  I  am  glad — yes,  glad  even,  to 
know  that  Harry  could  send  a  stranger  to  learn 
what  place  he  still  held  in  my  heart,  and  could 
hope  to  hear  that  he  held  none.  It  is  hard  ;  but, 
since  it  is  true,  it  is  best  to  know  it." 

"It  is  natural  that  you  should  feel  in  this 
way,"  says  Charlton.  "But  it  is  not  altogether 
just.  Harry,  as  you  are  aware,  is  very  volatile 
and  impressionable  ;  for  a  little  time  he  fancied 
himself  in  love  with  another  woman,  but  I  am  in- 
clined to  believe  you  possess  his  true  allegiance." 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  are  mistaken,"  she  says, 
quietly.  "  A  mingling  of  many  different  motives 
brought  Harry  back,  and,  once  here,  the  spell  of 
old  association  did  the  rest.  I  am  glad  that  he 
came,  and  that  I  have  had  an  oj^portunity  to  end 
everything.  If  he  had  not  done  so,  he  would 
have  felt  all  his  life  that  he  had  failed  to  act  as  a 
man  of  honor  should." 

"And  do  you  not  think  that  he  will  feel  it 
now  ?  " 

"  I  think  not— I  hope  not.     Why  should  he  ?  " 

"For  the  simple  i:eason  that,  if  he  'had  been 
two  months  earlier,  everything  would  have  been 
different." 

"  I  am  not  certain  of  that."  She  speaks  slow- 
ly, gazing  not  at  her  companion,  but  at  the  far 
blue   mountains.      "I   have  thought  of   a  great 


192  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

many  things  during  the  days  that  I  have  been 
sick,  and  very  much  alone.  I  have  seemed  to  see 
a  great  deal  that  I  never  saw  before.  My  own 
folly  is  one  of  the  things.  I  fancied  myself  so 
constant,  I  was  determined  not  to  change.  I  had 
an  ideal  to  which  I  clung — an  ideal  of  the  Harry 
who  went  away  two  years  ago — and  I  did  not 
recognize  how  much  the  reality  must  necessarily 
differ  from  that.  Do  you  remember  saying  once 
that  it  is  well  to  bring  memories  as  often  as  possi- 
ble in  contact  with  realities,  and,  if  they  will  not 
stand  the  test,  to  let  them  go  ?  I  have  done  that, 
and — have  let  my  memory  go." 

There  is  a  minute's  silence.  Charlton  looks  at 
her  doubtfully.  He  distrusts  the  serenity  of  her 
face,  the  calmness  of  her  tone.  These  things 
baffled  and  deceived  him  once  before,  and  he  fan- 
cies they  are  baffling  and  deceiving  him  now.  He 
is  aware  that  women  often  cloak  an  aching  heart 
under  such  an  exterior  as  this  ;  and  he  knows  that 
Flora  Tyrrell  is  just  the  woman  to  do  it.  But  she 
is  not  a  woman  to  utter  for  any  purpose  or  under 
any  provocation  that  which  is  not  true.  Knowing 
this,  he  is  constrained  to  believe  her ;  and  yet  he 
doubts  if  she  is  not  deceiving  herself. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  you  may  be  acting 
hastily  ? "  he  says,  at  length.  "  You  are  disap- 
pointed, no  doubt,  in  Harry — disappointed  as  we 
are  almost  certain  to  be  when,  after  long  absence, 
we  see  one  whom  we  have  invested  meanwhile 


"0  LAST   REGRET,  REGRET   C.VN   DIG."       193 

with  all  the  illusions  of  love.  But  do  you  realize 
all  that  your  decision  means  ?  You  must  forgive 
me  if  I  am  presumptuous,  but  I  fear  that  you  are 
trifling  with  your  happiness,  in  that  ignorance  of 
life  which  is  so  common  to  youth.  It  is  only  af- 
ter a  time  that  we  learn  how  life  means  for  the 
most  of  us — compromise.  That  which  we  would 
have  we  cannot  reach  ;  so  that  which  we  can  ob- 
tain we  take,  and  are  as  contented  as  our  nei^h- 
bors.  We  find  that  our  gold  is  mixed  with  base 
metal,  and  we  close  our  eyes  to  the  unpleasant 
fact.  It  is  only  when  we  are  very  young  and  in- 
tolerant that  we  cast  it  aside,  saying  that  we  will 
have  pure  gold  or  none." 

"  x\nd  the  meaning  of  this  is  that  you  think  I 
ought  to  marry  my  cousin  ?  " 

He  starts,  and  the  blood  comes  to  his  cheek  in 
a  dark  glow.  "  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say 
that,"  he  answers.  "  I  only  fear  your  falling  into 
a  mistake  which,  recognized  too  late,  may  sadden 
your  life." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  says,  gently  ;  "you 
have  been  so  from  the  first.  But  do  not  fear  for 
me.  I  am  making  no  mistake.  I  fancied  myself 
very  constant,  but  one  changes  despite  one's  self  ; 
and  so  I  find  that  I  have  chan2:ed.  Durincc  these 
two  years  Harry  and  I  have  drifted  farther  apart 
than  I  ever  fancied  was  possible.  If  we  were 
foolish  enough  to  think  of  spending  our  lives  to- 
gether, I  should  not  suit  him  any  more  than  he 
13 


194  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

would  suit  me.  It  is  sad  to  realize  this — but  it  is 
true." 

She  speaks  quietly,  but  with  the  same  air  of 
fixed  decision  that  was  so  remarkable  in  her  inter- 
view with  Sunderland.  She  has  plainly  taken  a 
resolution  which  nothing  can  shake.  Her  eyes  fill 
with  tears.  It  is,  as  she  says,  sad  to  realize  that 
all  is  over,  that  the  rude  hand  of  change  has 
touched  her  boy-lover  and  herself,  that  so  many 
fair  hopes  will  perish  without  any  fruition  ;  but 
since  it  is  and  must  be  so,  she  faces  it  without 
faltering.  Charlton,  regarding  her  keenly,  makes 
only  one  last  effort. 

"  Do  you  not  think,"  he  says,  "  that  you  might 
take  time — time  to  test  yourself  and  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  is  exactly  what  has  been  done," 
she  says.  "  Time  has  tested  both  of  us.  I  should 
be  foolish  and  weak  if  I  desired  any  further  test. 
What,  ISTellie,  have  you  finished  ?  Ah,  those  are 
lovely  ferns  !  Now  ask  Mr.  Charlton  to  lift  you 
up,  and  let  us  go  down  for  papa." 

Colonel  Tyrrell  joins  them  at  the  meadow,  and 
they  drive  home  in  the  lovely  evening  glow.  They 
find  Sunderland,  together  with  Minnie  and  the 
boys,  on  the  piazza.  He  comes  forward  and  as- 
sists Flora  from  the  wagonette.  "  I  hope  you 
have  enjoyed  your  drive,"  he  says.  "  I  was  sorry, 
when  I  came  back  and  found  you  gone,  that  I  had 
taken  your  horse.  You  might  have  preferred  to 
ride." 


"0   LAST   REGRET,  REGRET   CAN   DIE."      195 

"  No — I  was  not  strong  enough,"  Flora  an- 
swers. She  is  surprised  and  relieved  by  his  man- 
ner, and  slips  past  him  into  the  house  with  a 
lighter  heart.  She  does  not  know  that  Harry  is 
modeling  his  conduct  on  that  of  Charlton.  He 
would  be  afraid  to  flinch — to  play  the  part  of  dis- 
consolate lover — before  a  man  who  has  borne  a 
misfortune  similar  to  his  o^\ti  with  so  much  phil- 
osophical composure. 

At  sujDper,  however,  Flora  is  startled  to  hear 
that  he  means  to  leave  the  next  day.  She  looks 
at  him  with  wistful,  astonished  eyes.  "  O  Har- 
ry," she  says,  "  are  you  really  going  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answers  Harry,  with  commendable 
lightness,  "I  am  really  going.  Have  you  any 
commissions  that  I  can  execute  ?  I  have  a  very 
good  taste  in  feminine  attire,  though  you  have 
never  tested  it.  I  think  I  might  even  be  trusted 
to  buya  silk  dress.  Silvery-blue  would  suit  you, 
Flora." 

"But  it  would  not  suit  Transylvania,"  says 
Flora,  with  a  tremulous  smile.  "  One  needs  use- 
ful and  substantial  things  here." 

After  tea  is  over,  the  party  as  usual  distribute 
themselves  between  the  piazza  and  the  sitting- 
room.  Harry,  still  manfully  preserving  his  non- 
chalant demeanor,  strolls  into  the  latter  apartment 
and  asks  Flora  to  sing.  "Those  charming  old 
Irish  and  Scotch  songs — the  Irish  especially — that 
you  are  so  fond  of,  I  don't  hear  any  one  else  sing 


196  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

in  these  days,"  he  says.  "  Sing  '  Silent,  O  Moyle, 
be  the  sound  of  thy  waters  ! ' " 

Flora  cannot  refuse  ;  yet,  as  she  sits  down  to  the 
piano,  she  is  peculiarly  averse  to  singing  this  song. 
It  is  not  only  heart-breaking  in  its  pathos,  but  it 
is  connected  with  her  past  life  more  closely,  per- 
haps, than  any  other.  She  has  sung  it  for  Hany 
a  hundred  times,  and  sung  it  to  herself  a  hundred 
times  more  when  thinking  of  him  ;  for,  despite 
its  sadness,  it  somehow  rose  involuntarily  to  her 
lips  on  such  occasions.  Now  to  sing  it  on  the  eve 
of  his  departure,  when  he  may  be  going  away 
never  to  return — this,  she  feels,  will  be  hard. 
Yet  she  tries  to  do  it.  The  first  verse  she  accom- 
plishes, but  over  the  second  she  breaks  down,  and 
leans  forward  on  the  instrument  with  her  tears 
dropping  thick  and  fast  on  the  ivory  keys. 

For  a  minute  Harry  is  astonished  and  con- 
cerned. Then  a  flash  of  hope  comes  to  him.  He 
thinks  he  understands  what  this  emotion  means. 
They  chance  to  be  alone  in  the  room.  He  starts 
forward,  and  in  a  moment  his  arm  is  round  the 
drooping  girl's  figure. 

"  Floy,  my  darling  ! "  he  says,  eagerly,  "  you 
can't  be  so  hard-hearted  after  all — you  can't  mean 
for  me  to  go  !  Think  how  happy  we  have  been, 
think  how  happy  we  may  be.  Say  but  one  word, 
give  but  one  sign  of  forgiveness,  and  I  will  stay." 

It  is  a  minute  before  Flora  can  control  her 
voice  sufficiently  to  speak.    Then  she  says  :  "  You 


"0   LAST  REGRET,  REGRET   aVN   DIE."      197 

are  mistaken  ;  what  troubles  me  is  not  that.  It 
is — oh  !  it  is  that  everything  is  changed — and 
changed  so  inevitably.  We  have  separated  so 
far  ;  and  I  fear  we  must — must  separate  farther." 

"  That  is  very  likely  if  we  part,"  says  Harry  ; 
"but,  Flora,  you  ought  to  feel,  as  I  do,  that  we 
should  not  part.  Dear,  trust  me  again  —  once 
again — that  is  all  I  ask." 

"  O  Harry,  it  is  useless  to  talk  like  this,"  says 
Flora,  still  struggling  with  her  sobs.  "  It  is  not 
that  I  don't  trust  you,  but — everything  is  changed. 
That  is  what  seems  so  sad.  "We  can't — do  what 
we  will,  we  can^t  bring  back  the  past  ;  and  the 
present  is  so — so  mournful  !  " 

"  We  could  bring  back  the  past — at  least  all 
in  the  past  that  was  best  worth  having — if  you 
would  listen  to  me,"  says  Harry — "  if  you  would 
trust  me,  if  you  would  love  me.  O  Flora,  why 
don't  you  see  that  it  is  the  best  chance  of  our 
lives  you  are  thrusting  away  ?  " 

"  Xo,"  says  Flora.  His  passionate  earnestness 
restores  her  to  her  ordinary  composm'e.  She 
draws  back  from  him,  but  lays  one  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  looks  at  him  with  tear-misted  e^es. 
"  You  are  -wrong,"  she  says,  "  but  I  am  sure  you 
are  sincere,  and  it  breaks  my  heart  to  deny  you 
what  you  want — even  though  you  will  not  want 
it  long.  But  it  is  best  so — believe  me,  it  is  best 
so.  Some  day — before  long,  I  hope — you  will 
feel  it,  and  then  you  will  come  back,  will  you  not  ? 


198  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

Then  we  will  put  all  this  folly  away,  and  we  shall 
be  brother  and  sister  as  we  were  long  ago — O 
Harry,  shall  we  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answers  Harry,  touched  and  overcome  ; 
"  we  shall  be  what  you  like.  Perhaps  you  are 
right — perhaps  it  is  best.  I  am  unstable  and  not 
worthy  of  you  ;  but  I  shall  always  love  you, 
Flora,  and  I  shall  never  forget  all  that  you  have 
been  to  me  from  first  to  last.  God  bless  you,  dear, 
for  your  sweetness,  your  tenderness,  your  faith." 

"And  God  bless  you,  Harry,  and  give  you 
some  one  to  love  in  earnest,"  she  says.  Then,  as 
a  step  approaches  the  window,  she  turns  and 
passes  swiftly  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  SWEET    INNISF ALLEN,    FAKE    THEE    WELL  !  " 

"In  order  to  make  the  day's  journey  with 
comfort  to  ourselves  and  our  horses,  we  must 
start  early  to-morrow  morning,"  Harry  says  to 
Charlton  when  they  part  at  night. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  early?"  the  other 
asks. 

"  I  mean  eight  o'clock,  sharp." 
"  Oh,  very  well ;  that  is  not  terrible." 
It  may  not  be  terrible,  but  it  is  nevertheless 
more  than  Harry — without  that  stringent  sense 


"SWEET   IXXISFALLEN,  FARE   THEE   WELL!"   199 

of  necessity  which  taking  a  raih'oad  train  entails 
— can  prevail  upon  himself  to  do.  As  a  matter 
of  convenience  to  the  travelers,  breakfast  is  served 
half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  and  Charlton  is 
ready  for  it.  Not  so  his  companion.  That  young 
gentleman  appears  just  as  the  clock  is  striking 
eight,  and  is  greeted  with  a  shout  of  derision  by 
the  younger  members  of  the  family. 

"  Not  but  that  you  are  quite  right  to  take 
your  nap  out,  IlaiTy,"  says  George ;  "  for  if  you 
get  off  by  nine  o'clock,  you  will  be  lucky.  I  am 
just  from  the  stables.  Morgan  has  cast  a  shoe, 
and  been  sent  to  the  blacksmith." 

"  The  deuce  he  has  !  "  says  Harry.  "  Well, 
my  prophetic  soul  warned  me  of  something  of 
that  kind.  I  felt  that  there  was  no  good  in  tear- 
ing myself  out  of  bed  earlier  than  usual.  Thanks, 
Uncle  George  ;  I'll  take  a  chop.  By  Jove  !  when 
shall  I  see  such  mutton  again  ?  " 

"  HaiTy's  regrets  are  very  sentimental,"  saj^s 
Minnie. 

"  They  are  sincere,  at  all  events,"  says  Harry. 
"  Let  me  tell  you  there  are  worse  things  in  the 
world  to  regret  than  juicy,  tender,  mountain  mut- 
ton." 

After  breakfast,  George  proposes  that  they 
shall  go  and  see  after  Morgan  ;  so  Harry,  light- 
ing a  cigar,  strolls  stableward  with  him.  Charl- 
ton declines  to  accompany  them,  and  postpones 
his  cigar  until  later.     He  says  to  Flora,  as  they 


200  A  SUMMER   IDYL. 

stand  in  the  hall  together,  "Will  you  walk  down 
to  the  river  with  me  ?  I  should  like  to  look  at  it 
for  the  last  time." 

"  I  hope  not  for  the  last  time,"  she  says.  "  If 
you  really  like  Transylvania  so  much,  you  will 
surely  come  back." 

"  I  am  certain  you  do  not  doubt  how  much  I 
'  really  like '  Transylvania,"  he  says  ;  "  but  com- 
ing back  is  another  question.  Nothing  is  more 
marked  in  life  than  the  difficulty  which  attends 
any  attempt  to  repeat  a  pleasure.  Ah,  what  a 
morning  ! — what  a  scene  !  And  I  must  turn  my 
back  on  all  this  loveliness." 

They  have  emerged  from  the  house,  and  de- 
scend to  the  lawn  as  he  speaks.  Fair  and  far  the 
level  valley  spreads  before  them  ;  the  mountains 
are  di'aped  in  sparkling  haze  ;  a  dewy  brightness 
lies  over  the  scene ;  the  green  hills  and  shadowy 
woods  wear  the  indefinable  freshness  of  early 
morning ;  the  bright  river  is  full  of  glancing 
lights  and  wavering  shadows.  They  walk  down 
the  lawn,  and  pause  on  its  brink. 

"  '  Men  may  come,  and  men  may  go  ;  but  it 
goes  on  forever,'  "  says  Charlton.  "  What  pleas- 
ant days  I  have  spent  here  !  Miss  Tyrrell,  you 
must  let  me  thank  you  for  them  once  more." 

"  Why  should  you  thank  me  ?  "  she  asks,  sim- 
ply. "  You  have  given  me  as  much  or  more  pleas- 
ure than  you  can  possibly  have  received.  And 
if,  at  any  future  time,  you  should  care  to  come 


"SWEET   IXXISFALLEX,  FARE  THEE  WELL!"  201 

back,  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you.  I  cannot 
say  more  than  that — we  have  so  little  to  offer." 

"  Beware  of  false  humility  !  "  he  says,  smiling. 
"  You  know — or  ought  to  know — that  you  have 
everything  to  offer.  I  know  it,  at  least.  Yet 
I  do  not  think  I  shall  come  back." 

She  does  not  say  anything,  but  she  looks  at 
him  with  so  much  wistful  distress  in  her  glance — 
a  glance  which  says,  "  Is  it  Zwho  have  made  you 
form  this  resolution  ?  " — that  he  feels  impelled  to 
answer  it  by  an  explanation. 

"  Don't  think  that  I  say  so  because  I  have  not 
succeeded  in  winning  your  heart.  This  is  some- 
thing which  cannot  be  helped,  and  which  leaves 
no  bitter  memory  whatever.  Do  you  know  that 
I  pay  you  a  high  compliment  in  saying  so  ?  Do 
you  know  that  there  are  few  women  whom  a  man 
can  love,  by  whom  he  could  be  rejected,  and  yet 
around  whom  he  could  find  pleasure  in  lingering 
as  I  have  lingered  here  ?  There  are  still  fewer 
who  could  pass  through  such  an  ordeal  without 
waking  some  angry  or  disgusted  chord  of  feeling. 
But  I  was  thinking  last  night  as  I  smoked  my 
final  cigar — not  a  bad  time  for  meditation,  let  me 
assure  you — how  entirely  you  have  done  this.  I 
shall  carry  away  a  recollection  of  you  which  is 
without  a  flaw.  Even  my  love  for  you  has  seemed 
altogether  above  the  passion  which  often  bears 
that  name.  I  shall  look  back  upon  this  summer 
as  on  a  time  set  apart  in  my  life — an  idyl  in  the 


202  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

midst  of  jarring  prose  ;  and  hence  I  should  be 
loath  to  come  back  and  spoil  its  memory  by  bring- 
ing reality,  with  I  know  not  how  much  change 
involved,  to  bear  upon  it." 

"  But  that — that  is  morbid  ! "  cries  Flora,  with 
a  cadence  of  triumph  in  her  quivering  voice. 
"  The  very  thing  against  which  you  warned  me, 
and  now  you  are  guilty  of  it  yourself  !  Is  that 
the  way  philosophers  practise  their  precepts  ?  " 

"  Very  often,  I  fear.  But  since  this  is  our  last 
tete-d-tete,  and  since  I  am  confessing  everything, 
let  me  say  that  this  which  I  have  mentioned  is 
not  my  only  reason  for  saying  I  shall  not  return. 
To  go  away  to-day  is  not  only  a  wrench,  but  I 
shall  have  a  sharp  fight  for  many  days  to  come 
with  longing  and  regret.  Now,  when  a  man 
reaches  my  age,  he  knows  that  such  things  are 
not  trifles.  They  unsettle  one's  life,  distract  one's 
mind,  and  very  seriously  interfere  with  one's 
power  of  working.  Honestly,  I  can't  afford  to  be 
wretched  ;  so,  when  I  have  fought  my  fight,  and 
won  peace  back — as  I  shall  do,  after  a  fashion — I 
shall  not  endanger  it  by  returning  here.  A  re- 
lapse is  said  to  be  worse  than  the  original  dis- 


ease." 


Flora  scarcely  knows  whether  to  laugh  or  to 
cry  at  the  coolness  and  unmistakable  sincerity  of 
this  speech.  A  duller  woman  might  take  its  re- 
straint as  the  token  of  a  shallow  sentiment,  but 
she  is  not  likely  to  fall  into  such  an  error.     She 


"SWEET   INNISFALLEN,  FARE   THEE  WELL!"  203 

not  only  remembers  the  familiar  proverb  that 
"  Still  waters  run  deep,"  but,  with  the  quick  in- 
stinct of  a  sympathetic  nature,  she  feels  that  it  is 
no  schoolboy  passion  which  Charlton  talks  of 
conquering.  His  quietness,  instead  of  deceiving, 
touches  her  more  deeply  than  any  vehemence 
could  do.  No  woman  likes  a  man  the  less  for 
being  master  of  himself,  even  where  she  is  con- 
cerned. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  strange,  and  not  according  to 
precedent,  that  you  should  tell  me  all  this,"  she 
says,  after  a  while.  "  I  scarcely  know  how  to  an- 
swer you.  I  only  know  that  I  am  sorry — very 
sorry — if  we  are  not  to  meet  again." 

"  We  may  meet  accidentally,"  he  says,  trying 
to  speak  lightly.  "  Don't  fancy  for  a  moment 
that  I  should  not  be  delighted  at  such  an  acci- 
dent. I  only  meant  that  I  should  not  come  back 
here — like  a  moth  to  the  lio:ht  which  has  sinj^ed 
it." 

"  Then  you  are  not  likely  to  meet  me.  My 
life  lies  here." 

"  But  it  will  not  lie  here  always." 

"  I  think  most  ^^I'obably  that  it  will." 

He  glances  at  her.  "  Then  you  are  quite  de- 
termined with  regard  to  Harry.  You  will  give 
him  no  hope  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  answered  that  question  yester- 
day afternoon." 

"  In  that  case,"  he  says,  quickly,  "  I  am  forced 


204  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

to  ask  you  once  more  if  there  is  any  hope  for  me  f 
No  doubt  it  is  folly,  but  at  least  I  shall  know  the 
worst,  and  I  cannot  torment  myself  hereafter  by 
thinking  :  '  If  I  had  spoken  again  I  might  have 
won  at  least  a  chance.'  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  chance  ?  "  she  asks, 
in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  mean  time  and  opportunity  in  which  to  en- 
deavor to  win  your  heart,"  he  answers,  a  thrill  of 
sudden  hope  passing  through  him  and  sending  a 
glow  to  his  eyes  and  the  blood  to  his  cheek.  "  I 
know  you  do  not  love  me  now — " 

"  No,"  she  says,  as  he  breaks  off.  "  I  like 
you  very  much  indeed,  but  I  do  not  love  you. 
At  least  " — she  hesitates — "  that  is  what  I  think. 
Perhaps  I  do  not  know  what  love  really  is." 

"  You  would  know  it  if  you  felt  it,"  he  says. 
"  I  did  not  expect  any  other  answer.  It  would 
not  be  natural  or  characteristic  for  you  to  turn  to 
me  now.  Your  mind  and  your  heart  have  been 
full  of  other  things.  But  if  you  can  give  me  the 
slightest  hope — " 

"  I  am  afraid  to  give  you  that,"  she  says,  after 
a  pause  which  he  feels  to  be  very  long.  "  I  fear 
misleading  you  ;  I  fear  giving  you  further  pain. 
I  am  not  certain  of  myself.  After  all,  it  may  be 
safest  for  you  to  forget  all  about  me — as  you 
spoke  of  doing." 

"  And  as  I  never  shall  do  !  "  he  says,  with  a 
passionate  impetuosity  that  astonishes  her.  "  Don't 


"  SWEET  INNISFALLEN,  FARE  THEE   WELL !  "  205 

you  feel  that  ?  Don't  you  know  that  you  have 
twined  yourself  for  good  or  for  ill  about  my  life  ? 
I  say  for  ill  only  in  case  I  can  neither  win  you 
nor  forget  you.  But,  if  you  will  give  me  a  shi-ed  of 
hope,  I  will  come  back  and  try  my  fate  once  more." 

Silence  falls.  Many  a  woman,  who  has  been 
in  Flora's  position,  will  understand  the  conflict  of 
doubt  which  made  her  uncertain  what  to  answer. 
It  is  a  more  common  state  of  mind  than  people 
think.  When  this  issue  comes — an  issue  involv- 
ing the  whole  course  and  meaning  of  life  —  a 
woman  is  not  always  provided  with  fitting  Yes 
or  Xo.  Her  heart  is  often  an  enigma  even  to 
herself  ;  her  wishes  are  chaos.  Flora  looks  in 
troubled  silence  at  the  emerald  current  flowing 
s^viftly  by  under  the  drooping  trees.  What  shall 
we  say?  How  can  she  be  truthful  and  yet  not 
imply  too  much  ?     At  last  she  says,  slowly  : 

"  You  should  not  ask  this  of  me.  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  give  you  hope.  I  should  never 
forgive  myself  if  I  did  so — only  to  disappoint 
you  at  last.  Perhaps  it  is  best  to  part  as  you 
meant  to  do.  Put  me  out  of  your  mind — or, 
rather,  out  of  your  heart  ;  but  pray  do  not  for- 
get that  I  shall  always  remember  how  kind,  how 
considerate,  how  unselfish  a  friend  you  have  been." 

He  looks  at  her  with  a  keen  scrutiny  of  which 
she  is  conscious,  yet  which  she  feels  no  inclination 
to  resent.  He  knows  as  much  of  her  as  she  knows 
of  herself — and  is  welcome  to  make  what  he  can 


206  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

of  the  unknown  remainder.  This  is  what  she 
thinks,  and,  while  she  thinks  it,  Charlton  is  bring- 
ing to  bear  upon  her  all  the  force  of  observation 
and  intuition  which  he  possesses  by  nature,  or  has 
acquired  through  art.  He  knows  that  on  the  re- 
sult of  this  observation  everything  depends  now. 
He  must  decide  for  himself — and  that  speedily — 
whether  or  not  this  woman  is  ever  likely  to  learn 
to  love  him.  N^o  need  to  waste  time  and  passion, 
hope  and  endeavor,  if  she  is  not  likely  to  learn 
that  lesson.  On  the  contrary,  if  she  is,  the  best 
chance  of  both  their  lives  lies  now  in  his  grasp. 
The  responsibility,  the  doubt,  the  sense  of  all  that 
is  involved,  make  his  heart  for  a  moment  abso- 
lutely seem  to  stand  still.  The  indications  by 
which  he  must  judge  are  so  slight  ;  and,  if  he  mis- 
takes, the  mistake  can  be  made  but  once. 

Upon  this  hesitation,  a  voice  from  the  house 
breaks  sharply.  "Mr.  Charlton,"  shouts  George, 
"  is  your  trunk  ready  to  be  taken  down  ?  " 

"Quite  ready,"  Charlton  answers.  Then  he 
turns  to  Flora  with  sudden  resolution.  After  all, 
the  chance,  however  vague,  is  worth  a  trial.  An 
instinct  comes  to  him  that  this  is  his  best  hope  in 
life,  and  he  is  not  the  man  to  let  that  which  is 
best  slip  from  his  grasp  for  lack  of  earnest  hold- 
ing. 

"I  have  decided,"  he  says.  "I  shall  come 
back.  You  are  bound  to  nothing — you  have  not 
uttered  one  word  or  given  one  hope  for  which  you 


"  SWEET  IXXISFALLEX,  FARE  THEE   WELL ! "  207 

can  hereafter,  in  any  event,  reproach  yourself — 
but  I  shall  come  back.  Are  you  soiTy  to  hear 
that  ?  " 

"  Sorry — no  !  How  could  I  be  ?  "  she  answers. 
Her  voice  quivers,  something  like  relief  comes 
over  her.  She  is  not  to  lose  her  friend.  That  is 
the  first  thought  which  occurs  to  her. 

"  Remember  you  are  not  bound  to  anything — 
not  even  to  listen,  if  you  don't  feel  inclined,"  he 
says.  "  The  risk  is  mine — and  mine  alone.  But 
I  am  willing  to  take  it.  He  who  dives  for  a  pearl 
cannot  be  sure  of  finding  it  ;  but  he  dives  nev- 
ertheless. So  I  shall  dive  and  hope  to  find  my 
pearl.  If  I  fail — well,  even  in  that  there  will  be 
consolation. 

"  '  'Tis  somewhat  to  have  known,  albeit  in  vain, 
One  woman  in  this  sorrowful  bad  earth, 
Whose  very  loss  can  yet  bequeath  to  pain 
New  faith  in  worth.'  " 

"  Oh,  how  you  overrate  me  !  "  she  cries,  with 
a  thrill  in  her  voice.  "  "What  an  unintentional 
hypocrite  I  have  been  to  make  you  think  so  much 
better  of  me  than  I  deserve  !  " 

"  A  very  unconscious  hypocrite  indeed  ! "  he 
says,  smiling.  "  Now  I  fear  that  we  must  go  back 
to  the  house.  I  see  that  the  wagonette  has  come 
round  to  the  door.  I  have  only  one  more  request 
to  make — may  I  wTite  to  you  ?  " 

She   hesitates   only  a   second  before  saying  ; 


208  A   SUMMER   IDYL. 

"  Yes — if  you  have  time  to  do  so." 

"  Ah,  I  shall  find  time,"  he  says.  "  Don't  you 
fancy  that  you  are  likely  to  escape  on  that  score. 
You  will  receive  a  letter  once  a  week — will  that 
be  too  often  ?  And  in  answering  them — ^you 
loill  answer  them,  will  you  not  ? — pray  tell  me 
everything  about  yourself  and  all  the  household. 
No  detail  will  be  too  trivial  to  interest  me — not 
even  ISTellie's  and  Oscar's  escapades.  You  can't 
tell  how  often  I  shall  think  of  this  idyllic,  pastoral 
life,  or  how  welcome  any  breath  of  it  will  be  on 
the  feverish  and  tumultuous  existence  to  which  I 
am  going." 

"  I  may  write  now  and  then  if  you  really  de- 
sire it,"  says  Flora,  "but  once  a  week  is  over- 
whelming.    I  should  have  nothing  to  say." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  ask  that  yon  would  write 
once  a  week.  Write  when  you  feel  inclined,  and 
only  then.     Meanwhile — 

"  Charlton,"  shouts  Sunderland,  "  everything 
is  ready.     Come  on  !  " 

That  voice  seems  to  bring  Flora  back  to  her- 
self. "  O,"  she  says,  clasping  her  hands,  "remem- 
ber I  have  not  promised  anything — not  anything 
at  all — and  2>'^ciy  don't  hope  too  much  !  " 

"  I  have  very  little  hope,"  Charlton  answers, 
"  but  a  great  deal  of  resolve.  Don't  trouble  your- 
self.    I  remember  that  you  have  not  promised — " 

"  Charlton  !  "  shouts  Harry  from  the  piazza. 

"  It  is  I  who  am  detaining  you,"  says  Flora, 


"SWEET  IXXISFALLEX,  FARE  THEE  WELL!"  209 

turning  hurriedly.  "Come — we  must  go  back. 
Ah,  how  dreary  parting  is  ! " 

Harry  regards  them  suspiciously  when  they 
reach  the  piazza,  but  is  forced  to  admit  that  their 
manner  is  very  unlike  that  of  people  who  have 
been  interrupted  in  the  exchange  of  tender  vows 
or  passionate  farewells.  Charlton  goes  at  once 
to  tighten  a  strap  on  his  trunk  ;  Flora  turns  to  her 
cousin. 

"  Dear  Hany,"  she  says,  "  pray  do  not  let  it 
be  two  years  again  before  you  come  back.  You 
cannot  tell  how  we  shall  long  to  see  you." 

The  true  tender  voice  touches  Harry's  warm 
heart.  "  It  shall  not  be  two  years  again,  Floy  " 
he  says.  "  I  promise  you  that.  And  when  I  come 
back  I  mean  to  make  you  forget  everything  disa- 
greeable connected  with  me,  and  remember  only 
the  pleasant  things." 

"I  have  done  that  already,"  she  says.  "I  re- 
member nothing  which  you  need  wish  me  to  for- 
get.    God  bless  you,  Harry — good-by." 

He  kisses  her  as  a  brother  might,  then  wrings 
his  uncle's  hand.  "I'll  come  back  before  long, 
uncle  George,"  he  says,  "and  I  can  never  forget 
your  kindness — never  as  long  as  I  live  !  " 

The  other  adieux  are  quickly  made,  after  which 
it  is  Charlton's  turn.  He  shakes  hands  with  Colo- 
nel Tyrrell  warmly,  thanks  the  latter  for  his  invi- 
tation to  return,  and  says  that  he  may  avail  him- 
14 


210  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

self  of  it  for  a  short  time  next  summer.  Then  he 
bids  the  rest  a  cordial  farewell  and  comes  to  Flora 
last.  He  holds  her  hand  tightly  for  a  minute,  and 
is  strongly  tempted  to  kiss  it ;  but  too  many  eyes 
are  looking  on — he  restrains  the  impulse,  and  only 
takes  one  long  intent  gaze  into  the  blue  depths  of 
her  eyes.  "  Good-by  !  "  he  says.  "  I  shall  not 
forget.  Remember  that  you  have  promised  to 
write  to  me." 

The  next  minute  the  wagonette  is  driving  off, 
hats  are  waving,  last  words  are  uttered.  The 
gate  is  opened  and  shut  with  a  clang  ;  the  wheels 
roll  out.  Mechanically  Flora  sits  down  on  the 
steps  where  she  is  standing.  All  is  over.  They 
are  gone. 

The  road  to  Brevard,  and  thence  to  Asheville, 
leads  away  from  the  river  ;  but  Charlton  turns  as 
they  pass  out  of  the  gate  for  one  last  glimpse  of 
the  valley.  He  never  forgets  the  picture  which 
this  last  glance  leaves  on  his  mind.  The  far  blue 
heights  seem  steeped  in  soft  repose ;  dapjDling 
cloud-shadows  are  lightly  falling  over  the  w^ooded 
sides  of  the  nearer  hills  ;  the  great  sweep  of  fields 
and  meadows,  and  the  winding  foliage  that  fringes 
the  river,  with  the  golden  sunshine  of  Septem- 
ber lying  over  all,  are  almost  magical  in  their  fair- 
ness. 

^^  Et  in  Arcadia  egof''  he  says  to  himself. 
"  To-morrow  how  far  I  shall  be  away  !      Shall  I 


"SWEET   INNISFALLEN,  FARE  THEE  WELL!"  211 

ever  return  ?     Who  can  say  ?     But  summer  will 

come  again,  and  then " 

Yes,  summer  will  come  again,  and  then,  per- 
haps, on  some  green  hillside,  or  by  the  banks  of 
the  beautiful  French  Broad,  the  idyl  may  be  told 
of  which  all  that  is  written  here  may  stand  only 
as  a  preface. 


THE   END. 


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Consisting  of  Five  Books. 

By  Wm.  T.  Hakris,  LL.D.,  Supt.  of  Schools,  St.  Louis,  Mo.;  Andre-w 
J.  RiCKOFP,  A.  M.,  Supt.  of  Instruction,  Cleveland,  O. ;  and 
Mark  Bailet,  A.  M.,  Instractor  in  Elocution,  Yale  College. 

Appletons'  First  Reader 90  pages. 

•Appletons'  Second  Reader 142     " 

Appletons' Third  Reader 214     " 

Appletons'  Fourth  Reader 248     " 

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These  Readers,  while  avoiding  extremes  and  one-sided  tendencies, 
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be  attained  in  a  series  of  school  reading-books.  These  include  good 
pictorial  illustrations,  a  combination  of  the  word  and  phonic  methods, 
careful  grading,  drill  on  the  peculiar  combinations  of  letters  that  rep- 
resent vowel-sounds,  correct  spelling,  exercises  well  arranged  for 
the  pupil's  preparation  by  himself  (so  that  he  shall  learn  the  great 
lessons  of  self-help,  self-dependence,  the  habit  of  application"),  exer- 
cises that  develop  a  practical  command  of  correct  forms  of  expression, 
good  literary  taste,  close  critical  power  of  thought,  and  ability  to  in- 
terpret the  entire  meaning  of  the  language  of  others. 

The  high  rank  which  the  authors  have  attained  in  the  educational 
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work  especially  fit  them  for  the  preparation  of  text-books  that  emboOy 
all  the  best  elements  of  modern  educative  ideas.  In  the  schools  of  St. 
Louis  and  Cleveland,  over  which  two  of  them  have  long  presided,  the 
subject  of  reading  has  received  more  than  usual  attention,  and  with 
results  that  have  established  for  them  a  wide  reputation  for  superior 
elocutionary  discipline  and  accomplishments. 

Of  Prof.  Bailey,  Instructor  of  Elocution  iu  Yale  College,  it  is  need- 
less to  speak,  for  he  is  known  throughout  the  Union  as  being  without 
a  peer  in  his  profession.  Sis  methods  make  natural,  not  mecMnical 
readers. 

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U.  GERARD'S  MARRIAGE.     A  Novel.     From 

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Theophile  Gautier  .  50-75 

IV.  THE    TOWER    OF  PERCEMONT.     From 

the  French  of  George  Sand     .     .  .50       .75 

V.   META    HOLDENIS.      A  Novel.      irum  uic 

French  of  Victor    Cherbuliez 50       .75 

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of  Louis  Ulbach 60      i.oo 

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X.  ARIADNE.       From    the    French  of   Henry 

Greville 50       .75 

XL  SAFAR-HADGI ;  OR,  RUSS  AND  TUR- 
COMAN. From  the  French  of  Prince 
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